


The Case of the Ocean Mummies

by luthor_pendragon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, Christmas, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Multi, case!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 35,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2907026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luthor_pendragon/pseuds/luthor_pendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case is stumping the Great Sherlock Holmes and his partner John Watson. The Winchesters catch wind of it and come to London on a "vacation". Are the good doctor and his detective ready to factor the Supernatural into their world?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Case

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a thing for NaNoWriMo, but it has not been Beta-ed so please do forgive any spelling/punctuation/grammar errors. I'm usually pretty good about it, but I'm only human.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting our characters. Sherlock's insane. John's a hopeless romantic. Sam's a huge nerd. Dean likes to drink. And Cas doesn't like when Dean drinks.

“Blogging again, John?” Sherlock perched himself in his chair.

“Mm, yes.” He sat with his feet up on the ottoman, clacking away at his keyboard. The fire matched the noise as it kept the December cold at bay.

“Why?” He picked up his violin and plucked a few notes haphazardly.

John looked up from his screen. “You know why.”

“Yes, yes. Your therapist, whom you haven’t seen in over a year, mind you, said it was a good idea; people are fascinated by me, or at least your interpretation of me-“

“My interpretation of you?” John interjected. “Sherlock, what I put in my blog is nothing more than the truth.”

Sherlock put down his violin, jumped up, and started pacing the room. “The biased truth.”

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just because we’re dating now doesn’t mean my blog is going to be all mushy.” He looked up at his friend. “I’m a grown man, for God’s sake, and a doctor. I know how to maintain an objective viewpoint in my writing.” He paused for a second. “Hang on, how would you know whether or not my blog was biased? I thought you didn’t read it anymore.”

Sherlock ignored the question and began tapping his fingers arhythmically on the windowsill.

“Sherlock?” said John from his chair. The taller man continued to ignore him. John sighed again. He got up and walked over to his boyfriend.

Putting his hand on the man’s shoulder, he repeated, “Sherlock.” He turned the dark-haired man and wrapped his arms around the thin waist. “Sherlock, look at me.”

The blue-green eyes met the grey. Sherlock huffed, agitated.

John stayed steady on him. “You’re antsy. What you need is a case. A good one. Then you’ll calm right down.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and turned out of the shorter man’s grip, throwing his hands up in the air. “But where, John? Where? It’s been dead for three days now. I’m going insane.” He started flipping through everything on the mantle.

“I’ve noticed,” John laughed. “You’ve practically replaced your cigarettes with me.” He pulled the hidden pack of smokes from behind the bookshelf and shook them lightly.

Sherlock practically dived for them. “It’s not my fault you’re just as addicting,” he growled.

John pulled the pack away and held up one finger. “Ah, ah. One. That’s all you get, and then we’re calling Lestrade. See if he’s got anything.”

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock reached for the pack, knowing his short boyfriend was no match for his long limbs. What he didn’t count on was the doctor backing up. “Just give it to me, John,” he said angrily.

The shorter man shook his head in exasperation as he pulled out a cigarette and handed it over. “God, you’re an arse.” He took the rest of the pack and sat back down in his chair.

Sherlock cracked the window and smoked quietly for a few minutes. Even though he didn’t really care for John recording his private work for the entertainment of the masses, the steady, mulled clacking of the keyboard somehow calmed him. Or maybe it was the nicotine. He allowed his mind to get as lost as it possibly could with watching the cars and people steadily go by outside.

A quiet, comfortable silence blanketed itself over the room. Sherlock observed the life outside, but smiled slightly as he noticed John watching him over the edge of his laptop screen.

They exchanged shy, happy looks but the moment was broken by John’s mobile going off.

It was Lestrade. “Evenin’, John. You and Sherlock should pro’bly get down t’Bart’s. We’ve got a weird one and Molly’s not looking too good.”

“All right. It’s about time you had something for us. We’ll be right down.” He hung up and got up to grab his coat. Sherlock was looking at him expectantly. “Well, come on,” he said as he headed out the door.

“Thank God!” exclaimed the detective. He quickly extinguished what was left of his cigarette before yanking his Belstaff and scarf off the hook, donning them, and following his flatmate down to the street.

*

Sam sat in an armchair reading _Tik-Tok of OZ._ Ever since they had met Dorothy, he’d been trying to get through the entire series. Dean and Cas were lying out on the couch. Cas had his back against Dean’s chest and the man’s arm wrapped around his belly. They were watching _Raiders of the Lost Ark._

Sam’s laptop sat open on the side table next to the chair. It dinged, alerting the large man to a new post. “Huh,” he grunted after a few minutes. “Interesting.”

“What’s up, Sammy?” asked Dean, his fingers brushing softly over his angel’s arm. Castiel hummed quietly and nuzzled against the pillow they were sharing.

“Well, I’m on that Sherlock Holmes blog that I follow, and a really weird post just came up.” He scrolled through it, rereading the page.

“What kind of weird?” Dean peeked up at his brother over the arm of the couch. He couldn’t move much. “Double-rainbow weird or my-mom-married-an-alien weird?”

“Definitely alien weird.” Sam clicked and tapped for a couple minutes while Dean sat up on his elbow. Cas grunted in protest, but he was interested now, too. “Alright, get this. Apparently there have been two drownings, each of the bodies surfacing two days after they died, completely wrapped in seaweed and shells.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow. “So like mummies?”

“Yeah, exactly. They were found not too far from the same coast, but each of them were from different parts of the country. The autopsies revealed that each vic had, in fact, drowned, the lungs were full of water, but the body looked perfectly fine.”

Cas sat up. His stern face completely contradicted by the fact that he was wearing a pair of fleece pajama pants and an old band tee of Dean’s. “Was it salt water or fresh water?”

Sam scanned the screen. “Uh… salt. Sea water.”

“Strange.”

“Sounds like something we could look into, Sammy,” commented the elder Winchester.

“That’s what I was thinking. There’s only one problem… It’s in London.”

Dean’s head snapped around. “London? As in England?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

“Oh, well, screw that then.”

“What’s so bad about England? It’s beautiful,” commented Cas, turning to his boyfriend.

Dean looked up into the blue eyes. “Nothing,” he grunted.

Sam chimed in. “Dean just doesn’t want to go because it would mean we’d have to get on a plane, and he’s afraid of flying.”

“They crash, Sammy; they crash from thousands of feet up in the air.”

“You’ve been on a plane before,” he rebutted. “Three times.”

“Yeah, and two of them almost fell out of the sky. No dice.”

Cas interjected, “But I’ve flown you lots of places, Dean. You never complained then.”

The green-eyed man sighed. He could be mad at Sam, no problem, but he could never stay mad at Cas. “I didn’t, but my body sure did. I was just too busy at the time to worry about it. Besides, your kind of flying was nearly instantaneous.”

Cas nodded, frowning. He couldn’t do that anymore. Once they had cured Dean of demonhood, he had given up what little grace he had left in order to be with the man. As far as he knew, Hannah was still working on reversing Metatron’s spell up in Heaven.

“Is flying really so bad? It wouldn’t be much. A few hours at most. Besides, Sam and I will be right there beside you.”

Dean got up and walked to the kitchen without answering.

Sam frowned and Cas sighed. “This is going to be difficult, isn’t it, Sam?”

“Uh, yeah. He’s gonna have to get really drunk before we can convince him to go anywhere.’

“I’ll see what I can do. I really don’t like seeing him drunk,” came the gravelly voice. Then the former angel got up, leaving the younger Winchester to his research.

Dean took a shot of whiskey. He winced, fighting off the burn. A pair of gentle hands snaked around his tummy and he felt his boyfriend’s head rest on the back of his neck.

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not. Everyone has their fears, Cas. Granted, we kill those things that make up the fears of normal people on a weekly basis; so what does that leave for us to be afraid of?” He turned the shotglass in his hand, inspecting it, but not really. “The everyday things.” He shook his head and took a deep breath, putting the glass down. “For me, it’s flying. For Sam, it’s clowns. For you –“

“It’s Heaven. The angels,” cut in the other man.

Dean turned around and looked into the crystal blue eyes. “Really?” He was concerned. “I mean, I knew you were afraid of Raphael, and Lucifer, and especially Naomi, but I figured it was women, what with the incident at the brothel, and April, and, again, Naomi.” He slipped his arms around the other man’s shoulders.

The former angel shook his head. “No, I’m not afraid of women, Dean. I kissed Meg, and she took care of me in the hospital. I was married to Daphne, during my time as Emmanuel. And I had sex with April, didn’t I? I even possessed a female for a short while.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You did? When?”

Cas squinted, surprised Dean didn’t remember. “Claire, Jimmy Novak’s daughter.” He looked down at the body he had taken over so many years ago. It now belonged to him, and him alone, but sometimes it still felt alien. He sighed and gripped the back of Dean’s jacket.

“Oh, right, I forgot.” He looked away, feeling guilty. Dean didn’t like thinking about Jimmy, and everything that had happened to him. “As for April, well, the bitch killed you.”

Castiel caught his hunter’s eyes again. “Yes, and you avenged me, and Gadreel brought me back per your request. We constantly fight things that want to kill us, Dean.” He shook his head. “No, it’s not women, or the monsters that frighten me. It was always the other angels, the higher ups.”

Dean nodded and pressed his head against Cas’. “After you became God… What you did…” he sighed, “Well, let’s just say I’m glad you broke from their hold on you.”

Cas quirked up the corner of his mouth momentarily. “I’m glad I did, too. Otherwise, you would have been dead long ago. At my hand. I could never do that to you.”

Dean laughed. “No, but you can still knock me one pretty good. Remember the time in the alley?”

“How could I forget? I was so angry, then. I don’t think I’d ever felt that way before.” He pulled the man closer. “Not that I can remember, anyway.”

Dean closed his eyes and kissed Cas’ forehead. “Fucking Naomi.”

Castiel laid his head against Dean’s shoulder and shrugged. “She was just doing her job.”

“I know. Orders and all that.”

Cas just nodded. He was quiet for a minute. “I’m sorry I flew you so many places. I knew you were uncomfortable, but I didn’t know it actually scared you.”

This time it was Dean’s turn to shrug. “Like I said, I was too busy at the time to pay attention.”

Cas rubbed gentle circles into Dean’s lower back. “So you don’t like flying. I understand. But I also understand this: we need a vacation.” Dean started to protest but Cas wasn’t having any of it. “No, I know you like working, but I think it would be good to get away from familiar territory for a while. After everything that’s gone on recently, we deserve a break. I know I said before that you needed one, but now I think it would be good for all three of us.”

Dean sighed. “Okay. But only if we get to work on the case, too. This one’s new.” He shrugged. “I’m interested.”

Cas smiled brightly, laughing a little. “You are such a nerd.”

Dean faked being offended. “A nerd? Me? Right.” He rolled his eyes.

“Shut up.” He gave the man a cocky look. “I’m very pop culture savvy now. I know what a nerd is, and you, sir, are a nerd.” Cas poked his boyfriend playfully in the chest. He really was becoming more human every day, but usually only showed it in the little things.

Dean really tried to protest this time, but his indignation was muffled as his lover’s mouth took control of his own. After a minute, he just slipped his fingers into the dark spikes that encased the other man’s head. They both hummed happily.

Cas broke the connection and gathered the calloused hands in his own. “Don’t worry. Remember, Sam and I will be right there next to you. Besides, I’ve never been on a plane before. It will be an adventure.”

“Haven’t we had enough adventures for one lifetime?”

“Never.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Dean dropped Cas’ hands, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and walked off to the bedroom they shared.

Castiel went back to the movie room.

Sam looked up. “How’d it go?”

“Better book a room and a flight for as soon as possible. I don’t know how long this is going to work.”

Sam just grinned. “Go, Cas.” He immediately bent over his laptop and began typing away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive the slightly OOC Cas in this one.


	2. Meetings in London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "FBI" comes to Baker Street.

The next day went as expected. Sam coolly accepting the tickets and boarding passes, checking in their luggage, and moving them to their seats. Dean freaking out, nearly hyperventilating even as they walked through the doors to the airport. Cas’ eyes were lit up with taking in everything around him, even as they waited in line.

Sam turned around to find his ( _could he say brother-in-law?)_ struggling to lift his carry-on bag into the overhead compartment. “Need a hand with that?”

Castiel nodded. “Thank you.” He let his moose of a friend put the bags away while he sat down. His hand was trapped by Dean’s, white-knuckling his way through the boarding process until he could put in his headphones and drown out everything. Even still, he had already started humming to himself. “Dean, do you need me to get you a drink or anything?”

The green-eyed man just held up his free hand and pressed his lips into a thin line, his eyes staring blankly, unblinking, as he concentrated on the tune in his head.

Sam half-smiled at his brother. “I’d take that as a ‘no’, Cas. I think you should leave him alone for now.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Sam.” His thumb softly drifted back and forth over the back of Dean’s hand.

Nine hours, and many repeats of Metallica, later, they landed in London. Sam went to the baggage claim while Cas and Dean sat down.

Castiel, of course, was in a wonderful mood. He had enjoyed himself. It hadn’t been as nice as actually being able to fly instantaneously, but it was a far better mode of transport than by car, he thought. Cars were too slow and cramped. Not that he would ever say anything like that to Dean. The man loved his Baby far too much to allow her to be insulted.

Dean, on the other hand, was shaking. His mp3 player had died about an hour before landing and he had clung to his boyfriend even harder after that. Cas had tried to soothe him by talking to him, and running his fingers through the dark, sandy hair, and any other publicly-acceptable way he knew of calming Dean down, but nothing had worked. The poor man had ground his teeth until he had a migraine and had cut off the circulation to the other man’s hand before he realized how hard he’d been gripping. Dean had tried to apologize, but he really didn’t want to open his mouth. All in all, he had survived the flight, this time without barfing, or getting plastered. (He was rather proud of himself for this.)

Now he was back on Earth, and finally catching his breath.

They caught a cab to their hotel, checked in, and checked all their belongings. Thankfully, some fellow hunters had managed to pull some strings so they could get through everything with their weapons intact. Each bag had a miniature arsenal. Sam counted his lucky stars as he holstered his pistol, sheathed Ruby’s knife, put the flask of Holy Water, another of Holy Oil (just in case), and as much ammo as he thought he needed into his jacket for the next day. Dean (who was feeling much better after a meal and large whiskey) and Cas did the same thing.

After breakfast the next morning, they dressed in their FBI suits, Cas of course, included his signature trench coat. The younger Winchester hailed a cab and all three men climbed in the back.

“Where are we going?” Cas squinted his eyes over at Sam, who beamed.

“We’re going to see Sherlock Holmes, of course. Where else?” To the cabbie, he added, “221 Baker Street, Westminster, please.”

The driver saluted and pulled out.

*

Sherlock growled and banged his fist on the table. Glass beakers tinkled from the vibrations but none of them broke, thankfully. The curly-haired man tore his eyes away from his microscope. “Jawwn,” he whined.

“Yes?” came the sing-song voice of the doctor from his chair, obviously entertained by the detective’s frustration.

“Shut up,” snapped the taller man.

John turned and faked innocence. “What?”

Sherlock glared venomously from his position at the kitchen table. This of course, put the good doctor in such a state of laughter that it became difficult for him to calm down, let alone breathe. The detective wasn’t amused. “Is this really that hilarious to you?”

John shook his head, sobering up forcefully. “It’s not that; I just like seeing you actually act like a normal human being for once, that’s all.”

“As if that’s any better.” He got up and walked to the window. In a flash, his violin was in his hands and poised to play, but no notes would come. Not even the familiar tunes that he’d been taught as a child. Sherlock Holmes did not like this. He didn’t like this at all.

Instead, he deadpanned. “It’s all so incredibly dull.”

The shorter man had been observing from his chair. “What is?”

“This case. It’s so boring. The victims naturally drowned. End of story. The only thing out of place is the wrappings.”

“And it’s all so fascinating because you just can’t figure out the ‘who’ or ‘why’?”

“Yes,” he moaned and flopped down in his chair.

John got up, kissed his boyfriend on the forehead (earning him a playful smack in the rear with the violin bow) and went to make some tea.

*

The cab pulled up right where expected. Sam happily paid the man while his brother and friend climbed out in front of a small café called “Speedy’s”.

“You aren’t serious about this, are you, Sammy? Sherlock Holmes is a book character.” Dean adjusted his coat and checked his weapons.

“So were Dorothy and the Wicked Witch, until we found them in the computer room.”

Cas, of course, just looked at his new surroundings. He’d been to England before, but it had been a long time ago.

“Are we doing this, or not?” The younger Winchester stared at his brother.

“Fine.”

“Okay.”

All three of them put on their best FBI faces and Sam stepped up to the door of 221B. He rang the bell, hoping someone was home. On the inside, though, he was squirming like a 7-week-old puppy.

*

Sherlock looked up as the doorbell rang. His fingers were steepled under his chin, but his eyes looked down the stairwell. He slowly counted out…. 3…. 2… 1…. _Brrriiinng!_

He and John shared a look. “Client.”

*

Sam was about to ring the bell a third time when the green door opened to reveal a small, elderly woman. “Mrs. Hudson, I presume,” he said flatly.

“Yes. How can I help you boys?”

“We’re very sorry to disturb you, ma’am. I’m Agent Armstrong of the American FBI.” He held up his badge. Then indicated the two men behind him. “These are my partners, Agents Pritchard and Wright.” Dean and Cas held up their badges as well for the woman as she peeked beyond the wall of a man in front of her. Sam continued. “We’ve come to see one Sherlock Holmes.”

She gasped. “Oh, is this about that strange case? I had no idea the American government was involved.”

He nodded. “I’m afraid so, ma’am.”

“Oh, well, please, do come in. I’m sure Sherlock will be interested in this new development.” She stepped out of the way. “You can just hang your things here in the hall, if you like. There’s going to be snow again soon, I expect. Sherlock and John are just upstairs, if you’ll follow me.”

*

Sherlock watched the door expectantly as Mrs. Hudson appeared, followed by three men. As was natural to him, he deduced them the second he saw them:

_Man #1: Early-thirties; recent injury to his right arm, judging by the fact he was using his left-hand to fiddle around in his pocket even though he was clearly right-handed; frown lines around his hardened mouth; he’s been in some kind of war, and for a long time, but it was impossible to tell which; his eyes were drawn inward, and his breathing indicated a high level of tension…._

_Man #2: Mid-thirties; frown lines around the mouth even more hardened than the previous man; he held his shoulders more sternly; despite his seriousness, he liked to laugh, judging by the crinkles in the corners of his eyes; had an obvious attraction to the smaller man behind him; obvious alcoholism, as indicated by the flask hidden just inside his jacket…_

_Man #3: Early-forties, but his eyes said he was far older; he’d evidently seen the most battle, so much so that his face relayed a softness to his personality despite his body being set for battle-mode at any time, a little like John’s; obvious relationship with man #2; looked to be unsociable, or at the very least, self-conscious about something…_

_All: Man #1 and #2 are brothers, judging by their cheekbones and near-exact eye color, and the amount of personal space between them, which is virtually nonexistent between #2 and #3; all American; all carrying an assortment of weapons; all clearly not FBI…_

“Sherlock, these young gentleman are –“ began Mrs. Hudson, but as was often the case, the detective cut her off.

“Not FBI, Mrs. Hudson, but neither are they clients.” The woman huffed loudly at being interrupted. “Who are you?” demanded the man, not getting up from his chair.

“Sherlock,” scolded John.

The tallest man quirked a corner of his mouth up and waved down the doctor. “No, no, it’s alright.” He took a deep breath, settling his nerves in front of a man who had always been a hero of his, though, up until that point, an imaginary one. He turned to the shorter man. “Doctor John Watson, am I right?”

The blond stood up. “Yes, that’s correct.”

Sam stuck out his hand enthusiastically. “It’s an honor to meet you.” He looked around at the other two people. “All of you. I am such a big fan of your blog.”

John shook the man’s hand. “Well, thank you, I appreciate that. But you’re not here to give us a case, so why..?” he trailed off.

“Oh, I’m sorry. My name is Sam. Sam Winchester. This is my brother, Dean,” he indicated the medium man behind him, “and our friend, Castiel,” and the shortest man in the trench coat.

“Sammy, you can’t just tell them who we are,“ Dean started, upset at the free use of information.

“Why not? He asked.” Sam waved his hand at Sherlock.

John sighed. “Perhaps you should all sit down. Mrs. Hudson, would you mind helping me make some tea?” The woman nodded and joined the doctor in the kitchen.

Sam sat down in the chair at the desk, while Dean and Cas took the couch. Sherlock looked over them haughtily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra cookies for whoever can guess where I pulled the Agents' surnames from.


	3. We've got another one.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter DI Lestrade. Sherlock isn't too impressed by the Winchesters but Greg seems to tolerate them.

After several cups of tea, and a few tumblers of whiskey (despite the early hour), the Americans had explained who they were, what they do, and what they’ve done. Sam doing most of the talking of course, and at a very quick pace, much to the annoyance of the detective. Dean just growled and grunted in affirmation, only speaking to make a snarky comment or complain. Cas, as per usual, was polite, but stayed mostly quiet.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” John held up a finger, stopping anyone from talking. Sherlock eyed him curiously.

“Hold on.” The doctor bounded upstairs to his (now, barely-used) bedroom, only to pop down a moment later carrying something. Sherlock squinted to see what it was, but the doctor held up the object (a book) and showed it to the three newcomers.

Sam’s face paled.

Dean rolled his eyes, “Shit.”

Castiel just gave a small smile.

The younger Winchester hung his head. “Yeah, that’s us.”

John turned to the man in the trench coat. “So I assume you’re the angel? The one I read about in the online publications?”

Cas all but blushed. “Yes. At least, I was.” He splayed out his hands in a vulnerable way that read, _Now this is what I am. Just a man._

“John, what are you -?” Sherlock got up from his chair and snatched the book from his boyfriend’s hand. _Supernatural,_ by Carver Edlund. He read the back. Flipped through the pages. It was obviously well-read. “What is this?”

“You’re not the only one who gets bored, Sherlock.”

Sam sighed. “It’s us. It’s the story of us. As told by a prophet, Carver Edlund. Or, Chuck Shirley, as that was his real name.”

Mr. Holmes looked disgusted. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“Of course we are. Why don’t you believe us?” asked Cas innocently.

“Because it’s ridiculous. The existence of ghosts and monsters and angels and demons and the like. Science has proven that such things do not exist.”

Dean was getting frustrated. “Let’s just go, Sammy, we’re wasting our time here. He’s not going to tell us anything.”

The curly-locked head snapped around. “Tell you anything about what?”

“About the case. The one with the drowned men found mummified in seaweed.” Sam sounded almost bored now.

Sherlock squinted at him. “And what do you think you know about that?”

The younger Winchester shrugged. “Only what Dr. Watson has put on his blog. As there haven’t been any updates, I can only assume the research is going poorly.”

The detective whirled angrily around to face the shortest man. “You think the case is going poorly?”

“I never said that,” John remarked defensively. “I just know you don’t like it when people know you can’t solve something. You really do have a great amount of pride in your image. So I didn’t update, yet. Though, in retrospect, I guess that does make my blog a bit biased, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock stared at the doctor with a “ _told-you-so”_ kind of face.

Just then, John’s mobile went off. The tension in the room seemed to lock up and no one breathed as the doctor pulled it out of his pocket.

It was a text from Lestrade. _They’ve found another one. I’ve asked them not to move it this time. We’re at Westcliff-on-Sea. See you in about an hour? – GL_

_Thanks, Greg. We’ll be there as soon as we can. Also, we’ve got some new friends who came to help. Don’t ask. I’ll explain when we get there. – JW_

He looked up at the others. “Lestrade’s got another one.” He nodded towards the Winchesters. “That makes five now.”

“Where is it?” inquired the detective, interested now, instead of being a prat. As far as John was concerned, he still was a prat, but he knew this would distract the man for the time being.

“Westcliff-on-Sea. If we catch a cab, we can be there in a little over an hour.”

“Right.” Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and headed out the door.

“Sorry,” John shrugged. “He’s often like this. He’s actually not as bad as he used to be, but I think this whole thing has shaken him up a little. You should have seen him when we went to Baskerville.”

If Sam had been drinking anything, he would have spat it all over the floor. “Baskerville?”

John eyed him curiously. “Yes. You read my blog, don’t you? Of course you know what happened in Baskerville.”

“Right, yes, of course,” Sam was still a little shocked. He hadn’t thought that all of the cases in the blog were real. There had been too many that matched too closely with the books. After the _Supernatural_ series, though, he guessed he shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Anywho,” continued John, “let’s get going. That is, if Sherlock hasn’t left without us.”

*

It turned out the detective _had_ left without them. Sherlock had caught the first cab he could and jumped in before John even thought of coming downstairs.

He didn’t like this. A case he couldn’t solve, and now Americans who weren’t what they claimed to be but instead were something that was utterly preposterous? He shook his head and snorted in derision. _If this is something ‘supernatural’, I’ll eat my coat._ Nothing was supernatural. There were no such things as ghosts, or demons, or angels, or God, for that matter. Everything, dull as it was, was completely human. These murders were probably just that, murders. Human beings being killed by other human beings. The only things he still wondered about were the motive and the fact that the victims had been mummified but with seaweed in place of cloth.

He sighed, feeling tired. Sherlock reached into his pocket to text John, to apologize for leaving him behind, again, when he found he still had the book. He hadn’t realized that he hadn’t even put it down. _Well, it’s a long ride to Westcliff. Perhaps I’ll just look through it…._ He began to read.

*

Greg Lestrade stood waiting in the parking lot at the top of the cliff. He leaned against his cruiser, smoking a cigarette.

A cab pulled up and out stepped the familiar detective.

“Are you… reading?” The Detective Inspector almost laughed.

Sherlock was startled. “Hm? What? No.” He hastily closed the book and shoved it into the large pocket on the inside of his Belstaff.

“Yes, you were, I saw you.” He dropped his cigarette butt and stomped it into the dirt. The grin wouldn’t leave his face.

“It’s… an experiment,” Sherlock said hesitantly.

“Uh-huh. Where’s John?”

Sherlock was relieved the older man hadn’t pushed the subject. “Oh, he’ll be along.”

“Left ‘im behind again, did ya?” He shook his head. “And you’ve got some new friends. I can’t wait to meet people who think they could be friends of your’s.”

“You’re a friend of mine.” Sherlock looked offended.

“Am I?” Lestrade smirked. “What’s my first name?”

The younger man grunted in exasperation but didn’t answer. Greg just laughed and clapped a hand on his shoulder amiably.

A second cab pulled up. John came out first, followed by three men who towered over him. They looked like feds, but they didn’t carry themselves as normal feds did. More like soldiers, but not so disciplined. Closer to John when he was having a relaxing day.

“Guys, this is Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector and Head of the Department of Homicides down at Scotland Yard.”

The shortest man walked up and greeted him warmly. “Greg, these are the ‘friends’ I was telling you about. Sam Winchester,” the tallest man gave a polite smile and a small, curt nod and shook his hand; “Dean Winchester,” the green-eyed man pressed his lips into a thin line and eyed him suspiciously, but he shook his hand firmly when pushed to do so by Sam; “and Castiel,” the man in the trench coat nodded serenely and hesitantly went in for a handshake, like he was unused to the experience. “They’ve come all the way from America to help with the case.” John gave Sherlock a seething look as the detective scoffed.

“Castiel, huh? Named after an angel, _and_ with no last name? That’s certainly interesting,” the DI commented.

The man just looked at his feet, his face feeling hot. “If it makes you feel more comfortable, you can just call me Cas.” Dean reached out and squeezed his hand reassuringly. It was brief, but enough. Only Sherlock and John caught it.

Greg smiled and nodded. “Cas it is then.” He addressed them all. “Have you boys ever seen a dead body?”

“Oh, buddy, if only you knew.” Dean shook his head, laughing, in a disbelieving sort of way. Sam and Cas just looked away, smiling nervously.

The DI suddenly became uncomfortable. “Well, alright then. Follow me.” He turned and started going down the steep, loose-soiled path that led to the beach.

In order it went Greg, Sherlock, Cas, Dean, Sam, and then John. Lestrade had no trouble going down the path, as he had done it multiple times already. Sherlock kept his eyes on the ground, precisely calculating where to put his feet while holding his coattails in one hand. Cas wasn’t so lucky. Not only was his coat not closed, but it wasn’t tied, and he very nearly tripped on the sash as he stepped down, more than a few times.

Castiel lost his balance again and was caught by Dean, who was more sure-footed. “Cas, take off your coat.”

The dark-haired man looked up and pulled the cloth more tightly around him. “But it’s cold.”

“If you don’t take it off, you’re gonna fall. And it’s not _that_ cold. You’ll survive until we reach the bottom.” Dean was hanging onto the older man’s arms to stabilize him.

Cas sighed and took off his coat, shivering a little, and handed it to Dean, who draped it over his arm.

“Good, now let me go in front of you.”

“But…”

“No ‘but’s. I’m going to help you down.”

“Dean, I can walk, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. But you’re still used to balancing yourself with your wings, or just flying altogether. Just let me help you.”

“Fine.” He leaned back as far as he could manage while the long bow-leg wrapped around him, found a foothold, then carried the hunter to the new position. Their arms never separated.

Dean looked down around him before ensuring a new place to step. Then he looked up at his angel and said, “Alright, just follow where I put my feet. I’ll catch you if you lose your balance.”

Cas nodded and they went down the slope, hands linked whether they needed to or not.

Sam’s long legs found places to step as easily as Sherlock’s had and he was descending smoothly.

John was a few feet above him. “They really are cute together, in a rough sort of way.”

“Huh?” Sam looked up at the doctor who was watching Dean and Cas. “Oh, yeah, they are. And it’s about time, too.”

“Oh?” queried the shorter man.

“Yeah, they’ve been dancing around each other for about six years now. I knew it was either gonna happen, and they’d finally be happy, or it wasn’t, and one of them would have left for good.”

John smiled. “Yeah, I know how that is.” He looked around for another footing, but couldn’t find one.

“Here,” said Sam, who noticed. He reached up, grabbed the shorter man’s arm, and helped him down.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. So you and Sherlock, then?”

“Yeah, me and Sherlock.”

“How long?” Sam stepped off a two-foot drop.

“A few months now… whoa!” John jumped down at the same place. The sand underneath his feet gave way and he fell against the larger man, who caught him easily.

“You good?”

“Yeah, thanks.” He steadied himself but kept a hand on Sam’s bicep, just in case.

Sam smiled. “Continue. You understand how my, I guess you could say ‘brothers’, are?”

“Oh, yeah. Sherlock and I started dating a few months back, but I could swear our feelings started years ago. Too much tragedy and heartbreak in between then and now, though. Didn’t know if we were going to make it.”

Sam nodded. “You’ve read the books. You know how far those two have gone for each other. Cas has always been there for us, since he pulled Dean from Hell. Even when one of the three of us went darkside, he always stayed loyal.”

“It’s good to have friends like that. That’s why I like Lestrade. He’s helped pull Sherlock out of his own personal Hell multiple times, and I know he’ll be there to help me should we need to do it again.”

“Hm…”

The six of them finished the descent in relative silence. Cas occasionally whined about not needing help while Dean muttered something about “baby in a trench coat”. Sam helped John whenever his legs were too short to get anywhere.

Greg led them over to the body. Sam and Sherlock crouched over it, examining what they could. Sherlock pulled out the small kit he carried around.

Sam eyed the miniature pair of scissors the detective was about to pick up. “May I?”

Sherlock looked miffed but waved his hand in a _you-think-you-can-do-better-than-me?-by-all-means-have-at-it_ kind of way.

Sam pulled the old, bone-handled knife out and slit up the cocoon of vegetation. He had to saw in a few places, but he finally managed to reveal the man’s face and torso.

“Americans. No finesse,” hissed Sherlock.

Sam frowned and did his best to ignore the remark.

Lestrade and John stood by while the two taller men worked. The doctor was explaining who exactly the newcomers were. Greg just stood there, thoughtfully absorbing the information.

Dean and Cas were scouting along the beach, looking for other hints as to what was going on. Cas approached a small shoal, behind which sat a boulder and some bushes. Something danced on the edge of his vision and he turned to look.

Farther off down the shore was a young woman dressed in a small blue gown that looked entirely too inappropriate considering the weather and time of year. The wind whipped her hair around and her bare feet stepped slowly over the cold sand. “Dean,” he called.

The hunter jogged up. “Yeah.”

Cas looked at the man before turning back… and seeing nothing. He squinted, uncertain. “Never mind.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Holler if you find anything.” The man clapped him on the back before walking away.

Cas pulled his coat, which he was wearing again, close about him and strolled towards the place where he thought he had seen the girl. He scanned the area, looking for footprints, but any that had been there were already being washed away by the tide. A moment later, a shout rang out.

“Hey fellas, you better get over here!”

The entire company ran over to Dean who sat crouched next to the boulder Cas had spotted before. He was poking at something with a stick.

Sam covered his mouth with the back of his hand, looking disgusted. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It looks like some kind of animal skin,” commented Lestrade.

“Oh, it’s a skin alright, but I don’t think it’s an animal,” remarked Dean. He lifted up part of it and tried to get a better view.

“Shifter?” asked Cas.

“Aren’t shifter’s skins usually… messier… than that?” John added, thinking back to that time in the books when one had disguised himself as Dean, and other men, to get away with murdering women.

“Usually, yeah.” Sam nodded. “This one looks too neat to be a regular shapeshifter. What do you think, Dean? Skinwalker?”

He shook his head. “Nah, skinwalkers transform, they don’t shed – Cas, what are you doing?”

The former angel had reached forward and picked up the object. It was thick, and rubbery, and mottled, covered in grey, black, and brown spots. It was perfectly smooth on one side, and had short hairs sticking out of it on the other. There were no other distinguishing features, like a face, or legs, though. “Strange. Dean, hand me your silver knife.”

“Sure thing.” He held it up, handle first.

“What does silver have to do with anything?” asked Sherlock haughtily.

“Most forms of shapeshifters, and sometimes other monsters, burn when touched with silver because of its natural purity. A bullet or knife made from silver is often the most effective way of killing the thing,” answered the younger Winchester.

“Like a werewolf,” Greg interjected.

“Exactly.”

“Well, well, looks like we got a monster on our hands, boys.” Dean beamed up at them as Cas lightly pressed the flat of the blade against the thing in his hands. It smoked and bubbled a little bit, reacting as expected.

“The only question now,” remarked Cas, “is what kind?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why, but the image of the Moose almost carrying the Hedgehog down the mountain was utterly adorable.


	4. Obvious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Molly. Dean and Sherlock are nicer than they let on. Cas has a problem in the streets. And Martha Louise Hudson is a genius.

They were back in London. Sherlock had taken them to the lab at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and introduced the Winchesters to Molly. Lestrade, of course, had a mound of paperwork to do back at the Yard.

The detective sat staring at a portion of the skin they’d found underneath the microscope as the computer scanned the DNA, trying to match it to something in the database.

Dean sat at the available laptop, researching the five victims to see if there were any sort of social connections between the men. He leaned on his elbow with his chin resting in his hand, looking bored.

Sam was with Molly in the morgue, examining the bodies and trying to find other connections besides the fact they were drowned and mummified. She was trying so hard not to giggle at him while he made many uncomfortable faces at dipping his hands inside the corpses. It didn’t always work.

John gave a great huff. “Well, Cas, what do you say we go get some food for everyone? It looks like anything that can be done is being done at the moment.”

Cas’ stomach rumbled and he nodded. “Yes, I believe that would be in our best interests.”

“Take my card,” said Sherlock casually.

“Already got it. If you’re not going to eat, the least you can do to make us feel more comfortable is pay for it.”

Sherlock smiled one of his small, knowing smiles. One of the bright ones the doctor loved to see. “John,” he said lovingly.

“Come on, Cas.”

“Good-bye, Dean.”

They left.

“Cute, your boyfriend,” Sherlock commented after a few minutes.

“Hm? Oh. Thanks.” Dean huffed with exasperation.

“But…?” pressed the detective.

“But, it’s just that, he’s such a _child_ sometimes, you know? It’s like he doesn’t understand the simplest things. Do you know what that’s like; dealing with someone like that?”

Sherlock hesitated. “I’m afraid I’m not the one you should be asking something like that to. John would more likely be able to provide you with an answer.” He looked up at the hunter.

Dean turned around. He nodded, understanding. “I figured you two were…” he trailed off.

Not that Sherlock needed him to continue. “Yes, we’re together, and after far too long.”

“I hear ya there.” He laughed dryly. His finger rolled over the touchpad, scrolling the page he was on.

A slightly awkward silence passed between the two men.

“So, uh… John, though. He’s not bad…” Dean scratched the back of his neck, “Looking, that is.”

“Thank you. I think so, too.” The detective actually gave a small smile.

Dean snorted. He recognized the sarcasm dripping from the other man’s mouth as a mirror for his own. “A little on the short side, though.”

“Well, after constantly being around that giant of a man you call your brother, I wouldn’t doubt that you consider John short.” Sherlock said cockily, turning away from the microscope, giving the hunter his full attention.

The younger man shrugged. “He’s not called “Moose” for nothing’.”

“That’s… apt.”

Just then the other computer buzzed. It had apparently finished running its scan. Sherlock strode over. “Hmm…”

“What’s up?”

“No genetic matches fit. I’ve updated this database several times. How is it possible that there’s nothing in here?” He clicked and typed a few things before the thing buzzed again, flashing a large, red, “NO MATCHES FOUND”.

Dean gave a small laugh. “Maybe it just doesn’t contain any monsters.”

“Perhaps…” He was skeptical.

Dean turned back to the computer. After a few more minutes, he smiled. “Yahtzee!”

“Hm?” Sherlock looked up at him, still frustrated with the database. “Find something?”

The hunter nodded. “Yeah. I think so, though it’d probably be better if we were all together before I explain it. ‘Two heads are better than one, and so on”, you know?”

The detective raised an eyebrow. “Alright.” Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted John: _Done here. Might have found something, but not sure yet. Meet us back at Baker Street. – SH._

*

“So, what are you feeling like?” John led the way out of the hospital.

“Um, confused. And a little cold.” Cas closed the buttons on his trench coat and tied it, something he rarely ever did.

The doctor laughed at the man’s answer. “No. I meant for food. What do you want to eat?”

“Oh.” He thought for a moment. “Well, Dean likes cheeseburgers, and Sam likes salads.”

“But what do _you_ like?”

“I’m rather fond of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches…” The former angel trailed off. As they had exited Bart’s, Cas had seen the same young woman that had been down at the beach. Only, this time, there was something off about her.

There was a small burn on her right arm, and a cut on the corresponding cheek. Her hair lay languid and flat, and her dress wasn’t so shimmering.

He started walking towards her, only to have her disappear the instant someone else passed across his field of vision. He had gone half a block before he stopped.

John chased after the taller man. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” stated the former angel hesitantly, still staring at where he’d thought he’d seen the girl. “Yes, everything’s… fine.” He turned back to the doctor, his eyes downcast, brow furrowed in thought.

“If you’re sure…”

Cas rubbed his forehead. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for asking, John.”

“Alright.” He raised an eyebrow at the man. “Just, tell me if something’s wrong.”

Cas gave one of his soft smiles. “I will.” He was still thinking hard as they walked.

They reached a small diner and ordered. While they were waiting, John’s phone went off. _Done here. Might have found something, but not sure yet. Meet us back at Baker Street. – SH_

A second later: _*kiss* -- SH_

_Okay. And since when do you use emotes in your texts? – JW_

_Since I didn’t do it when you left. And since I didn’t apologize for heading to the cliffs without you. Sorry. –SH_

The doctor smiled to himself. _It’s alright. I understand. – JW_

_*kisses back* -- JW_

*

Sherlock, of course, was working, and so refused to eat, despite the fact that John had bought him something for later. Not to say the detective didn’t appreciate the gesture.

John had opted for a bowl of hash that didn’t seem quite up to snuff but at least it was something.

Molly was more than happy with the pasta they had gotten her, but Sam couldn’t even look at his chicken sandwich without wanting to hurl. He had never really liked being in morgues, and the image of having to dig the First Blade out of a gooey corpse had just kept popping into his head.

Dean was skeptical of his pot pie at first. The idea of having pie was always appealing to the man, but having it stuffed with what seemed like leftovers from Thanksgiving dinner (not really, but the same foods) made him raise an eyebrow at it. Needless to say, the item was gone in less than a few minutes, and Cas had gotten a good-natured squeeze out of the whole ordeal.

Cas himself had gotten a steaming bowl of corn chowder. It was warm (which he was happy about) and rather good, but he only managed a few bites before the young woman invaded his thoughts again. He put the bowl down and sat there, staring hard into the floor of the flat, brow furrowed.

Dean looked up at his boyfriend from his position on the couch (Cas was seated on the arm). “You all right there, angel? You look like you’re gonna smite the place.”

The blue eyes turned to stare into the green. His face calmed. “I’ll be fine, Dean, thank you.”

“Okay,” he laid his hand over Cas’ and gave it a small squeeze, “but you know I know what ‘I’ll be fine’ in Winchester-speak means, so we’re gonna talk about it sooner or later.”

Cas’ face didn’t change but he laced his fingers in the other man’s. It was all they needed for the moment.

“So what do we know?” piped up Sam, looking around at the others.

“We have five men who turned up dead out of the blue. Drowned, mummified, dumped on the beach to be found,” started Dr. Watson.

“No,” Molly chimed in, “they weren’t drowned.”

Sherlock looked up at the woman. “What?”

She stammered. “We- well, they seem to have died and then their lungs were filled with the salt water.” She sipped her tea.

“What evidence do you have to support this?” inquired the detective.

Sam continued. “There was no salt water present in the nostrils or upper throat, or even in the villae`    in the lungs. It hadn’t been absorbed by the men struggling to breathe. The lungs were acting more like a pitcher than a sieve.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his face. _How could he have missed that?_

“Also, the salt water may not have been present in those places, but it was still sea water, judging by the present microorganisms,” added the woman. “They wanted to make it look like the people had drowned.”

“But they did die roughly 48 hours ago?” asked the curly-haired man.

She nodded. “The last one, yes, and each had been dead for about that amount of time when they were brought to me, give or take the time it took to find them.”

“Hmm…”

“That would mean that someone had been keeping them alive, for whatever reason, before killing them and dumping the bodies,” commented John.

“So what killed them?” asked Dean.

She shrugged. “If I had to guess, I’d say they were smothered, but I’m not positive, yet.”

The younger Winchester turned in the chair. “Dean, what did you find that you thought connected the men?”

“They had all been crewmen on a deep-sea fishing boat that went down over a week ago. I looked up the company who ran the boat and found an online ad for “men in troubled marriages”. Basically, if a man was having bad luck at home, he was offered to take a break from the family by going on a fishing trip to clear his head.”

“That would explain why all the men were from different parts of the country,” concluded John. “They must have found the ad and traveled to board. Did it say where the boat took off from?”

Dean nodded. “Edinburgh.”

“There’s a large shipping port there. A fishing boat wouldn’t be out of place at all,” stated Sherlock flippantly. “Was there anyone else on the bill?”

“Yeah, these five saps, and three others.” Dean leaned against Cas’ side casually.

“Hmm…” Sherlock stared off into space. “But what does the seaweed have to do with it?”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe it was just something traditional? Maybe the killers are some kind of spiritual people and that’s how they buried their dead.”

The detective shook his head. “No, it’s too coincidental. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Amen to that,” remarked Dean.

“And dumping the bodies near the mouth of the Thames?” Molly wondered.

“Obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock looked up at her.

Sam piped in. “To take away the focus on Edinburgh, where the ship had been stationed. To keep us looking south when we should be looking north.”

The detective gave a “there-you-go” gesture towards the younger Winchester. Sherlock was starting to like the man. Sam’s brain may not have been as well-trained as his own, but there certainly was potential there.

“That only leaves the skin we found on the beach.” The doctor gestured towards the burlap sack that sat on the floor next to Castiel.

The former angel picked it up and pulled out the item. He ran it through his fingers. It felt rougher on the hairy side, now that it was dry. He squinted. “It reminds me of something…. Some kind of animal….” He looked up at the others. “A seal maybe?”

There was a sudden crash. Everyone looked up at the open doorway to find the landlady staring at the thing in Cas’ hands. A shattered mug of tea lay at her feet.

“Mrs. Hudson!” John and Sherlock got up out of their chairs to help her. Sherlock went to her and started picking up the glass while John went to the kitchen to find a towel and dustbin.

The detective looked up into her face. “What is it?”

The woman hesitated before answering. “None of you… none of you have been seeing a young lady walking around have you? In a small dress that plays with the light as it moves?” She was still staring at the skin.

Cas nodded. “I have.”

Dean looked up at his boyfriend. “What?”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, “Ethereal, almost like a fairy?”

The former angel nodded again, squinting at the landlady.

She held up a finger and shakily turned. She returned to her flat, descending the stairs as quickly as her bad hip would allow.

“Really, Cas?” remarked Dean.

Castiel looked down at the freckled man. “Yes.”

Dean thought for a moment, then remembered. “Down at the beach, before I found the skin, you were looking for something… Is that what’s been on your mind all day?”

“Yes.”

“And again in town?” chimed in John, who was mopping up the tea while Sherlock placed the broken pieces in the dustbin. Cas just nodded again.

The detective paused. “What?”

“Earlier, when we left Bart’s, he saw something, or someone, and went running after it. It took me a minute to catch up, but before I did, he’d already lost whatever he’d been following.”

They heard some banging coming from Mrs. Hudson’s flat for a moment.

“And again, on our way back,” came the gravelly voice.

“On the street?” spat Dean.

“Yes. It was only for a moment, as we were going past in the taxi, but I swore I saw her.” He ran his thumb over the burned spot on the skin.

“Where was she?” pressed Sherlock as he placed the last of the shards in the bin.

Castiel shrugged. “Not far from the hospital, but I don’t know the city well enough to tell you.”

There was more banging. This time it grew louder as Mrs. Hudson worked her way upstairs with a large stack of books. She nearly toppled and her two tenants ran to help her.

She exhaled lightly, relieved. “Oh, thank you, boys.”

Sherlock and John deposited the tomes on the desk.

Sam looked at them. “What’s this, Mrs. Hudson?”

“That, dear,” she panted, “is all you will ever need to know about Selkies.”

Molly facepalmed. “Of course. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

“Wait a minute,” said John. “You don’t really mean selkies, as in the seal-people found in old mythology?”

The older woman nodded. “Of course, dear.”

Sherlock was aghast. “Mrs. Hudson, where did you get all this?”

“Oh, I’ve had it for years. I’ve always enjoyed fairy tales. But I never thought they were really real. You’ve just never bothered to actually look through my books, have you?” The detective shook his head.

Sam picked up one of the books and flipped through it while the others waited. “So get this,” he started after a moment, “selkies, depending on where you go, are often confused with something called ‘finfolk’ who actually do abduct people.”

“But are they shapeshifters?” asked Dean.

“Yes, and in order to shift, they cast off their skins, like normal,” the younger Winchester held up a finger, “but, the thing about selkies is that their skin remains intact when they shed, and they are able to put it back on. They have to, to be able to return to the sea.”

“And that is what you think this is? A selkie skin?” John pointed at the thing they’d found.

“Yeah, it seems to fit,” answered Sam.

“But what about Cas seeing this woman all over the place?” said Dean, a possessive, underlying growl in his tone.

Cas wrapped his arm around the man’s shoulders and smiled at him, trying to reassure him.

“Who all has touched the skin? Who touched it first?” inquired the landlady.

It was quiet for a minute as they all thought. “Just me,” answered the former angel eventually.

Molly nodded. “That explains why you’ve been seeing her. She’s connected to you.”

Dean was confused. “So, what? She can only be seen by Cas because he’s handled her skin?” He looked a little sick. “Ugh, that came out so much dirtier than I planned.”

“No, not necessarily,” commented Sam, who had continued reading this whole time. “We would all be able to see her, but she’s only after Cas, because he has her skin. She’s been hiding from the rest of us.” He turned the page.

“Right,” agreed Mrs. Hudson. “If a man desired a selkie maid, who are notoriously beautiful, all he would have to do is find her seal skin and hide it. She wouldn’t be able to return to the sea without it, and often she was forced to marry him.”

“She probably went willingly, for a chance at getting her skin back,” suggested Castiel.

The elderly woman nodded. “They often had children together, too, according to the stories, and it was usually the children who found the skin and gave it back to the mother. Then she would slip back into the sea. Since they were half-breeds, the children either went into the sea with her, or they stayed on land with their father.”

“It’s not like I want it,” said Castiel, putting the skin back in the bag. “I don’t want to marry a selkie maid.”

“You think that’s why she was at the cliff? She was the one who dumped the body before heading back into the ocean?” John thought out loud.

“No, no,” Sherlock dismissed. “Couldn’t be. Did you see the size of him? One seal wouldn’t have been able to move a person that large all alone.”

The doctor stared at his partner. “Are you actually starting to believe them?” He almost laughed.

The detective glared. “John, how many times must I say it? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable – “

“—Must be the truth. Yeah, I know. That doesn’t mean,” he stopped short. Sherlock’s face suddenly looked broken and his right hand was shaking, a nervous tell that John knew relayed fear in the man. The doctor was painfully reminded of the detective’s reaction to the Hound of Baskerville.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” John kneeled at Sherlock’s feet and spoke quietly. He took the taller man’s hands in his own. “It’s okay. We’re gonna be all right and we’re gonna figure this out.”

Mr. Holmes swallowed his nerves forcefully and gave a little nod, but he gripped John’s hands tightly.

The doctor understood. He shifted his weight so he sat on the floor, leaning against his boyfriend’s legs. He knew Sherlock needed him there; not just in the room, but right there with him emotionally. “You’re right, you know. One seal couldn’t have been able to do that alone.” He looked up at everyone else. “You think she might have gotten separated from the pod?”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe.”

Molly was thinking. “What troubles me, though, is the fact that selkies and finfolk are rumored to stay up near Orkney and Faroe, which are much farther north than Edinburgh.”

“A double-bluff?” suggested Dean. “Keep us looking in the wrong place?”

Cas agreed. “An ordinary person would have found the company in Edinburgh, dismantled it, arrested whomever necessary to arrest, and then would have believed the job finished.”

“But we’re not ‘ordinary people’, are we, Castiel?” Sherlock smirked. “We dig deeper than that.”

“Correct.”

An idea wormed its way into the detective’s skull. It was devilishly clever, his favorite kind, and it only needed one more piece. As it bloomed over his face, he looked over at the elder Winchester. “Dean, feeling up to a game of poker?” He winked.

The hunter caught the eye of the detective. He smiled, getting it. “We’ve got the cards. But we’re gonna need a table.”

“I know where we can get one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson doesn't get enough credit. Sherlock never realizes just how awesome she is. Also, if Molly can put up with Sherlock, Sam should be no problem.


	5. Splitting Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Mycroft. Lots of love as the teams split and go off to their separate missions. Cas, John and Greg worry about the boys.

The next morning, Lestrade stood outside the door to King’s Cross Station. He took a drag on his cigarette and shivered. “Bloody weather,” he grumbled.

Just then, a black, rather expensive-looking, car rolled up to the curb. A window rolled down. “Wouldn’t you rather be someplace warm, Detective Inspector?” purred a voice from inside.

Greg looked down into the cabin. “Yeah, I would, actually. I’d rather be in my cozy office goin’ over a mountain of paperwork than standin’ out in the freezin’ wind waitin’ for your tosspot of a brother and his lunatic friends.”

Mycroft Holmes gave a small smile of amusement. The diplomat offered the seat next to him. “Then, by all means, join me.”

Lestrade stood up, extinguished his cigarette, looked around for anyone who could be watching, and then slipped into the car. The window was rolled up, as was the one that separated the driver from the passengers. He placed his hands in front of the heater vent and hunkered down, grateful for the warmth. “Thanks.”

“You really ought to get a new coat, Detective Inspector. You could catch your death; and then where would London be?”

“Without a buffer for your incessant little brother.”

“I hesitate to imagine such a frightful scenario.” He twirled the umbrella in his hand casually.

“Yeah.”

“And, indeed, where would my brother be without you there to pull him back from temptation?”

Lestrade almost blushed. “Ah, he doesn’t need me anymore. He’s got John.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft smiled to himself. They sat there, soaking up the welcome heat inside the car, for a few quiet minutes.

All of a sudden, there was a sharp rap on the window. “You’d best have your pants on when you come out of there, Mycroft Holmes, or else all of Britain will know just how big of a prick you are.”

“I believe the term you’re looking for is ‘have’, dear brother,” sassed the man as he stepped out.

“Oh, no, I’m fairly certain that if you got cold enough, you’d just,” Sherlock put his hands together slowly, whistling, before, “POP!” he jerked them apart upon touching, ”disappear right out of existence.”

The diplomat quirked one corner of his mouth up and glared at his brother evilly. “Well, at least I’d last longer than you.”

Sherlock shut his mouth and squinted at his brother while Greg, Dean, and John stifled a laugh. Sam plastered on one of his patented bitchfaces ( _1000% done_ ) and Cas just stared at them, confused.

“You’ve put cameras in my flat again,” growled the detective.

“Of course.” He said smugly. “Have to keep a watch out for my little brother, don’t I?”

He raised an eyebrow cockily. “Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed the show, particularly in the bedroom.”

Mycroft backed off a bit. “I will freely admit, that that is one of the few places my eyes have not seen.”

Sherlock slung his arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders and pulled him close. “Aww, you hear that, John. It looks like we’ll be moving to the couch next time.”

“As if we haven’t christened it already,” the doctor joined in. Since they were now together, he felt it was okay to pick on the diplomat now and again.

Mycroft became acutely uncomfortable and Sherlock knew he had won. Lestrade stepped in. “Alright, boys, yeh’ve had your fun; now can we get back to work, please?”

Sherlock smirked. “Everyone, meet my older brother, Mycroft. Mycroft, these are-“

“The Winchesters and the angel, Castiel. Yes, I know.” The elder Holmes gave one of his icy, diplomatic stares. “Shall we head indoors? This weather is not ideal for such intrigue, wouldn’t you say?”

“So you know what’s going on, then, do you?” posed John as they walked inside and followed the suited man to a private office.

“Yes, of course.” He held open the door for everyone. “Anthea.”

His Personal Assistant got the message and punched multiple commands into her phone.

They sat in there well into an hour. Mycroft explained that he knew about the world the Winchesters lived in. He also explained that in regards to his “minor position” in the British Government (Greg, John, and Sherlock barely contained a giggle at this), his diplomatic responsibilities included maintaining treaties with various species around the country, including the Selkies.

The younger Mr. Holmes scoffed. “You’re joking. None of this could possibly be true.”

“Yet, here you are.” He stared coldly at his younger brother. “Do you know why I was always the smart one, Sherlock? It’s because, unlike you, I don’t delete things from my ‘hard drive’, as you say, if I deem them unimportant or unbelievable. Knowledge is power, dear brother. You of all people should understand that.”

Sherlock sneered and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Noon rolled around. After a quick lunch, everyone stood together on the platform. In the time it had taken them to speak, Mycroft had sent his men all over the city to get everyone’s bags and warm coats and other such necessary items. Each person had been made up a single rucksack and they had been placed at the corresponding man’s feet.

The plan was that Sherlock, Mycroft, Sam, and Dean would head up to Edinburgh to dismantle the fake fishing company while John, Cas, and Greg would go farther north to Orkney to meet with the Selkie Alpha.

“I still don’t like this idea,” complained Dean.

“Neither do I, Mycroft,” agreed Sherlock.

“Yes, it is rather unfortunate, but it is what’s best. As I explained, the Detective Inspector, Dr. Watson, and Castiel are the most qualified candidates due to their calm demeanors when in combat.”

Sherlock snorted. “John, calm? Hardly. He overreacts about everything.”

“Do not!” protested the short man.

“You see?” pointed out the detective.

“But he is not fighting anyone at present, is he? Just your own stubbornness, which he, no doubt, tolerates on a daily basis.”

“I thought you didn’t do _legwork_.” There was venom in the younger Holmes’ voice.

“I don’t,” Mycroft replied haughtily.

“Then why are you coming?” asked Dean.

“Because,” interjected Sam, “you two are such hot-heads that you’d go insane and just start blowing up the place if we weren’t there to keep you on point.”

Sherlock scoffed and glared at Mycroft.

“What are brothers for?” he returned saucily. Sherlock and Dean rolled their eyes and groaned simultaneously, eliciting a laugh from everyone else in the group.

“I still don’t understand why they can’t stay with us,” remarked Dean. “We can take out the guys in Edinburgh and then head up to Orkney. You’re the diplomat. You should be the one going on the diplomatic mission.” He was almost yelling now.

Mycroft steeled his will and spoke in a too-calm voice. “You will mind your tone with me, Mr. Winchester, or I will have you extradited on charges of my own choosing before you utter another word.”

Dean physically paled. He may have been cocky but he knew not to mess with authority figures too much. The elder Mr. Holmes reminded him too closely of Death, and those meetings had never gone well for the man. He nodded quickly but didn’t say anything.

“Good.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up in amusement.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” apologized Sam. “But I hope he finally understands why he needs me along.” By the end he was growling and glaring at his brother.

Dean sighed in exasperation. He picked up his bag and gave Cas a quick kiss on the cheek. “Be good out there, angel. I’ll see you soon. Kick some ass for me.”

Cas gave a small smile and dipped his head. “I will.”

Dean nodded, turned, and stalked towards the train.

“And that’s our cue to leave,” huffed Sam. He turned to the other team. “Good luck, guys. See you tomorrow, hopefully.”

“Will do,” said Lestrade. “I only wish I was going with you guys. More my division, you know.”

Cas just gave a solemn nod and John shook his hand.

Sam grabbed his luggage and followed his brother.

Sherlock hooked up his sack and looked gravely towards the doctor. “John.”

“I know, Sherlock. Just have a steaming cuppa waiting for me when I get back.” He hugged his detective and sent him off.

Being the last one, Mycroft addressed the DI. “Detective Inspector, you’re in command. Remember, if you get into any trouble, just give them my name and you should be granted amnesty. If you don’t get the chance to do so, each of you has a silver knife in your bag, just in case.”

“Right. Good luck on your end, then.” He held out his hand.

Mycroft shook it encouragingly, as he did for the other two, before mounting the train behind his brother, rucksack draped over his shoulder. The sight made Greg giggle a little, which made John look up at him, curious. The taller man just waved it off.

“All right, mates,” said the DI. “Time to wait our turn.” The three men picked up their own bags and headed to the lobby. Their train was headed north as well, but it didn’t leave for another couple of hours.

“You think they’ll be alright, by themselves like that,” asked John as he sat down in one of the uncomfortable plastic seats.

“Mycroft’s been taking care of Sherlock far longer than you or I, John,” put in Greg.

“I suppose so.”

Cas nodded. He sat down across from the doctor. “The same goes for Dean and Sam. Dean may have looked after Sam all throughout their childhood, but now he’s the one that needs looking after, and Sam’s the best man to do it. Especially since I can’t anymore.” Cas sounded defeated at this admission.

Greg laid his hand on the former angel’s shoulder as he took the seat next to him. “Cas, just because you’re not an angel anymore don’t mean you’re useless. You’ve got the most battle experience out of all of us. Hell, you’ve got the most experience, period, out of all of us.”

“Yeah, in fact, it surprised me that you didn’t know about the selkies right away,” commented the doctor. “I thought angels would know everything there was to know about the world.”

Cas smiled in amusement. “No, we, _they_ , don’t know everything. They are told what they need to know to be able to follow their orders, and they are content with that. Angels were built to obey, not question.”

“Sounds a bit dull,” Greg groaned. He bent down and started rifling through his bag, learning its contents.

Cas nodded. “Yes.”

John leaned back and stretched his short legs. “What about God?”

The former angel tilted his head, staring at the doctor. “What about him?”

“Where is he? Is he in Heaven, watching over us, as the stories say? Is he on Earth, walking amongst us? Is he gone, never to come back? What’s his status on all this?” He gestured in an all-encompassing way.

“We don’t know.” The dark-haired man watched as the train carrying his boyfriend and the others pulled out of the station. “No one does.”

“Well,” John looked at Greg, who stared back. “That’s depressing.”

Castiel just sighed loudly and watched the carriages roll by. The three men were silent as the caboose faded out of sight, each lost in his own world of thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for Team Brotherhood and Team Warrior!


	6. Team Brotherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes' and the Winchesters head off to Edinburgh.

It was a five-hour ride to Edinburgh. As was expected, Dean and Sherlock spent the beginning of it sitting across from each other in the compartment, sulking. On occasion, they glared at each other if only to mentally say, _Fucking Mycroft._

“I swear, they’re like children,” commented Sam as he handed the elder Mr. Holmes a cup of tea from the trolley.

The diplomat sipped delicately. “I couldn’t agree more.” He sighed. “But, I suppose they are at that age. Not quite old enough to have a mid-life crisis, but not young enough anymore to be frivolous.”

Sam nodded. “Ready to settle down, and yet constantly having the ones they love the most taken away from them.”

“And returned, repeatedly. I daresay the trouble Dr. Watson has caused in my brother’s life, and his heart, has certainly turned Sherlock into a more complex person than I knew him to be. Whether that’s for better or for worse, I cannot tell, as of yet.”

Sam sipped on his own cuppa. He winced. It wasn’t very good. “The same goes for Dean and Cas. I’m glad they finally pulled their heads out of their asses and got their shit together, but I’m afraid it might’ve taken too long. We’ve been through so much, the three of us; it really could go either way.”

Mycroft regarded the younger Winchester. “Yes, I have been informed of your… escapades. The important ones, at least.” He held up a hand, cutting off Sam’s incredulity. “You are prominent figures within your own circles, are you not? Also, there was the matter of one Bela Talbot a few years back.”

Sam nodded. “Oh, yeah. Are you the one who got the info for us?”

“No.” The diplomat had a faraway look in his eyes as he remembered. “But I do recall the woman doing some work for myself and my colleagues.” He took another sip and let out a small sigh, glancing down at his drink for a millisecond.

Even though most wouldn’t have, Sam noticed. “You don’t like the tea, do you?”

A furrow appeared on the red-haired man’s forehead. “How could you guess?”

Sam grinned. “’Cause mine’s crap, too.” They both laughed. Sam’s loud and full of mirth, while Mycroft’s was a small giggle of amusement.

Sherlock and Dean watched their brothers standing outside in the carriage corridor. “Look at them,” sneered the younger Mr. Holmes. “They’re actually getting along.”

“Ah, well, Sammy has a tendency to get along with pretty much anyone with an above-average IQ.”

The detective cocked an eyebrow. “You do know that that can be trained? Everyone has the potential to be as brilliant as either myself or my brother; it is just that hardly anyone ever tries.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, I know. I’ve had enough training for a lifetime, though. Not to say that this new case isn’t interesting, it’s just that I’m content with my level of knowledge. There’s only so much you can learn from books. You gotta live a little, you know?”

“Indeed. Have you ever had a case like this before?” asked Sherlock.

The hunter shook his head. “With selkies? No, not yet, though we’ve encountered plenty more that are far worse.”

“Ghosts?”

Dean gave a quick laugh. “Too many to count. And too many that are too close to the heart, for that matter.” He frowned a bit after he said this, his eyes turning inward.

“Hmm… You claim Castiel is, _was_ , an angel, and I’ve read that first book by Mister… Shirley, was it? And it talked about a demon. So I take it those are real, too?”

“Oh, yeah, Yellow-eyes.” The green-eyed man became very somber at that. “Trust me, you don’t want to go down that road. Total dicks, the whole lot of them.” He subconsciously scratched at the point on his inner arm just below his right elbow.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at this. Dean noticed where he was looking and waved him off. “It’s nothing.”

“Alright.” He was still curious. “Dragons, then?”

“Yup. Nasty sons o’ bitches. And the myth that they can only be killed by a blade forged in dragon’s blood? That’s true, too.”

“So you need to make one to kill one, but you need to kill one to make one?”

“That’s what I said!” He smiled. “Weird, right?” Dean was starting to relax now. It was nice having his mind taken off Cas and his mission. All he needed now was a beer.

“Hmm, that’s certainly a paradox, at best. Okay, what about aliens, extraterrestrials?” Sherlock was sure this would stump the man.

Dean leaned towards the detective and smiled. “You know, there was one time where I thought we had encountered them. They even ‘abducted’ me.”

“But…?” The detective eyed him suspiciously.

“But it turned out not to be aliens. As far as we can tell, E.T. stays on the TV.”

“Then what was it?”

Dean lounged back against the seat happily. “Fairies.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly. Those little bastards were taking people left and right. Only first-born sons, though, which is why I was abducted and Sammy wasn’t.”

Just then Sam and Mycroft walked in, carrying tea trays. The elder Holmes had plates of various items while the younger Winchester carried coffee for them all.

Sherlock turned to his brother, a questioning look on his face, his back straight. “Mycroft, did you know that fairies only take first-born sons?”

He nodded, his face serious. “Of course. What do you think happened to our elder brother, Sherrinford?”

The other three stared at him, dumbstruck. Sherlock’s mouth literally hung open. All was silent for a moment before a broad smile spread over the red-haired man’s face. He busted up laughing. “I’m kidding, Sherlock. It has always been just the two of us.” The younger Mr. Holmes did not find it amusing in the slightest.

“So have you been to the Fairy Realm, Mycroft?” asked Sam as he handed Dean and Sherlock their drinks.

“Once or twice, yes.” He passed out plates of mince pies, fresh fruit, and biscuits.

Dean smirked. “And have you serviced Oberon, King of the Fairies?” He could barely contain the giggle struggling to come out.

Sam gave Dean one of his bitchfaces ( _Oh, come on, really?_ ) but the older one just winked.

Sherlock eyed his brother over the lip of his cup, waiting for an answer.

Mycroft caught what Dean was saying. The corner of his mouth quirked up. “If you’re implying that I ‘scrub his floors’, as it were, then you are mistaken.” He set the tea tray down beside himself and took a bite of fruit. “No, but as a man of my position, I do him the service of acting as liaison between our worlds, in Britain, at least.

“I ensure that they take no more of our kind than is necessary, and in return, he ensures that not too many of his folk are out and about here; so as not to get caught by stray humans, you see. Utter chaos would break out if all of a sudden wishes were being granted due to too many leprechauns getting caught. I must say, though, those diminutive folk are as bad as crossroads demons. Complete sticklers when it comes to contracts, and greedy. They’ll extort any and every loophole they can find.”

Sam nodded, thinking back to the time he’d fought with one.

Dean opened one of his mince pies and picked at the contents with his fork, staring at them curiously, before trying them. After a moment, he decided he liked it and dug in voraciously.

“Dude, what is it with you and food?” complained Sam.

Out of respect for present company, Dean swallowed his bite before answering with a smile. “Pie, Sammy. Pie. And, hey, at least I have a varied palette, unlike you, Mr. Only-Organic-Rabbit-Food-For-Me-Please.”

“You literally live off cheeseburgers, pie, beer, and whiskey.”

“Dear God, the sheer amount of calories, Mycroft. However do you think he manages it,” teased Sherlock, the back of his hand laying on his forehead dramatically.

“No doubt by constantly running it off,” Mycroft whapped Sherlock’s ankle with the point of his umbrella. Dean just nodded in agreement, his face stuffed as before.

“Ouch, Mycroft!” He glared back sharply.

The elder Holmes continued. “At least he eats, Sherlock. I swear, you would have starved to death yourself if first Mummy, then I, and now John weren’t around to make sure you consume something.”

“Digesting slows me down. You know that.”

“Indeed I do, but that is beside the point. Your lack of proper sleep is inexcusable as well.”

“Sleeping is boring,” Sherlock said flatly as he stared out the window. “A waste of time, if you ask me.”

“Don’t even get me started on insomnia,” commented Sam. “There’s been far too many incidences where we didn’t sleep at all.”

“We know,” said the Holmes brothers together without looking at each other.

“It’s written all over your faces,” added Sherlock.

And so the train ride continued. Each set of brothers swapping stories and bickering with each other to the amusement of the other set. Asking questions (this was mostly Sherlock), going over the plan for Edinburgh (Sherlock was still surprised at Mycroft’s insistence at coming along), and exchanging worries concerning the other team (something neither Sherlock nor Dean wanted to think about) killed the time they had left before arriving in Scotland.

*

It was around 6 pm and already dark when they got off the train. The Winchesters and Holmes’ were dressed in the thermal gear that had been stashed in their bags and they caught a cab to the docks. Mycroft had also provided them with down jackets that hid plates of Kevlar. They were form-fitting, but flexible.

“Dude, these are awesome!” The elder Winchester rolled his shoulders and twisted about, making sure he could reach all his weapons. “It’s like I’m not wearing armor at all.”

Mycroft smiled as he put his on. He handed his suit jacket and umbrella to Sherlock to wear. “Just be careful with them. I managed to borrow seven and seven only. These are prototypes, but hopefully they will become crucial pieces in a new line of military gear; and I do have to return them.”

“What better way to test ‘em?” said Dean as he pulled out his pistol and checked everything.

They walked quietly along the docks to where, after asking a night guard, the warehouses that had been used in the last week by small fishing boats were located. Turned out that there had been only one.

Sam and Dean cocked their pistols and went around to the back door, one in either direction. They were to back up the Holmes’ in case there was trouble, the Winchesters being the essential brawn of the operation.

The building was empty on the outside, looking like a normal shipping warehouse. The refrigerator vents were going and the whole place had a strong smell of fish. Surprisingly, though, it was unguarded. There weren’t even any security cameras. Mycroft had checked with Anthea real quick to make sure.

The Americans easily picked the lock and slipped inside. They hid out in the shadows and waited for the signal from Sherlock.

The Holmes’ were the brain. They nodded to each other. Once the Winchesters were in position, Sherlock strode right up to the front door, doing his best to copy his elder brother’s calm demeanor. He even casually swung around the umbrella in his hand as he walked.

Mycroft, on the other hand, hid in the shadows and followed Sherlock. He slipped inside the warehouse just behind his brother, not allowing the door to shut in front of him. Normally, he’d be the one handling the negotiations, but right now he didn’t even have Anthea around to protect him. It was just the four of them, and a man in his position couldn’t risk being a direct target. He hated putting his little brother in his place, but considering their team, it was the best option. Also, he secretly liked the adrenaline rush he got. He was no junkie, like Sherlock, or John, but once in a while, exhilaration was good.

Sherlock strode into the middle of the floor and leaned on the umbrella nonchalantly. The same way he’d seen Mycroft do it for years. He waited a moment, watching the darkness, before speaking. “Hello? Is anyone at home?”

They allowed a few minutes to pass. The darkness stayed the same: total. The air vents near the rafters were even closed, blocking the light from the streetlamps outside.

_Scratch, scratch, tap. Scratch, scratch, scratch._ Sherlock appeared to calmly play with the umbrella as he waited, hitting the tip on the floor. _Scratch, scratch, tap. Scratch, scratch, scratch._ Mycroft knew, though, that it was really Morse code. _Scratch, scratch, tap_. G. _Scratch, scratch, scratch_. O. GO.

The elder Mr. Holmes quietly shimmied up to the wall near the front door. He fumbled for a minute, allowing the others time to close their eyes, before he switched on the lights.

The four of them blinked rapidly, trying to see… nothing. The only things in the entire space were a few empty crates. Everything had been swept clean.

The Holmes brothers used their quick minds and sharp eyes to study the floor and the entryways.

The Winchesters used their long legs to run over to check the only two side rooms. Sam took the refrigerator while Dean took the office.

The office was clear. Not even a scrap of paper had been left in the room.

The fridge smelled strongly of fish, which wasn’t unexpected, but it, too, was empty.

They ran over to the front door, Mycroft shut off the lights, and they all left.

No one said anything as they packed their weapons away, caught a cab back to town, and rented a hotel room. Lucky for them, the elder Holmes always carried a fair amount of cash on his person at all times. It wouldn’t be good to leave an electronic trail.

Sherlock and Mycroft sat down in the armchairs in front of the hearth while Sam and Dean flopped down on the sofa. The Holmes’ brothers took to their usual thinking poses: fingers curled (Mycroft) and steepled (Sherlock) together in front of their faces.

Sam let out a deep breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Well.”

“Indeed,” said Sherlock.

“That was a bust,” complained Dean. He got up to raid the minibar. He poured out four glasses of whiskey and passed them out.

“It wasn’t.” Mycroft took and swirled the drink in his glass.

“How do you figure?” Dean took a good pull on his.

“Did you not see how clean it was in there?” asked Sherlock.

“Yeah, it was spotless.”

“Exactly.”

“So they left, and didn’t want to leave behind a trail,” added Sam.

“But how long ago did they leave?” Mycroft eyed the Winchesters calmly.

Dean shrugged. Sam thought for a moment. “I dunno, within the week?”

“Good, now think a little harder.”

Dean stared into his whiskey as he paced the room, working off his adrenaline.

Sam sat on the couch, his brow furrowed in thought. He snapped his fingers and his eyes lit up. “The dust.”

“What?” asked Dean.

“Good,” purred Sherlock.

“There wasn’t any dust on the floor,” continued Sam. “At all. That means the floor was washed fairly recently. I’d say within the last 24 hours.”

Mycroft nodded. “That’s right.”

Dean looked up at everyone. “And the office. It was completely clear. Not even a loose pencil shaving or a forgotten paper clip.”

“What about the refrigerator?” asked Sherlock.

Sam shrugged. “Empty. Spotless. Like the rest of the place. Still smelled really fishy to me, though, which means it hasn’t been long since it was used.” He took a sip from his glass. “The fish was probably the last thing they moved when they cleaned out the place, so it wouldn’t go bad.”

“But why did they waste the time in moving it? Couldn’t they have just gone fishing?” Dean posed.

Sam took on a sarcastic tone. “I dunno, Dean. Would a pack of werewolves want to go hunting all over again when they had a big, old, steaming pile of human hearts already at their disposal?”

Dean smiled and started to sway. “Werewolves of London,” he sang. This, of course got him another one of Sam Winchester’s bitchfaces ( _dude, so not the time)._

“What?” He looked around at the other two. “Warren Zevon? Come on, it’s a classic.”

“Dude,” pleaded Sam.

“Alright,” submitted Dean, rubbing the back of his neck. “Awkward?”

“Ya think?”

“Enough!” snapped Mycroft. “The situation is no laughing matter, Mr. Winchester. We may very well have just sent our dear friends walking right into a trap.”

Dean shut up. Sam gave it a minute to cool down in the room before speaking. “So you think they knew we were coming?”

“I don’t know,” answered the elder Holmes. “Not for sure.”

“It could be that they were just finished with the place,” suggested Sherlock. “We’ve already pulled up five bodies, and from what Dean has said, there were three more. No doubt Molly’s got one, or two, at Bart’s by now, if not all of them.”

“Coincidence, dear brother. And really,” he cocked an eyebrow, “when are coincidences ever _coincidental_? The universe is rarely so lazy.”

“Then the only question that remains is why,” put in Sam.

“Why, indeed.”

The four of them thought deeply for the rest of the night, sleeping in shifts. Well, Sherlock tried not to, but Mycroft eventually convinced him to get a couple of hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nerds, the lot of them.


	7. Team Warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas', Greg's, and John's adventure.

Even as the two sets of brothers checked into their hotel room, Cas, John, and Greg were still on the train. The trip from London to Thurso, far in the north of Scotland, was a long one.

They had changed into the thermal gear and Kevlar jackets that had been stowed in their own luggage. Checking each beforehand, they sheathed and holstered all their weapons.

The trip itself had been uneventful. Because of its length, and the time, they had decided to get some sleep before they arrived. It wasn’t a problem. All three of them were trained to waken at a moment’s notice, should anything attack them, or even hit hard against the bolted door to the compartment. They knew they were safe.

They rented a car under fake IDs and drove to Gills, where they got on the ferry to St. Margaret’s Hope on South Ronaldsey Island. Then a bus would take them the rest of the way to Kirkwall.

It was 10 am and freezing. The other passengers were down in the cabin. Not that there were many that day. Mostly just people traveling to visit family in Orkney for the holidays.

The three conspirators stood out on the deck.

“Bloody Mycroft and his bloody plans,” complained the Detective Inspector. Despite the gear from the diplomat, he was still shivering.

John laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You know he means well, Greg. If there’s anything the Holmes brothers can do, it’s make a plan for the better.”

“Oh, yeah? What about Moriarty?”

John’s face darkened and he looked away. He sucked in a breath and rocked back on his heels. “I’ll admit, that was a mistake. One that I know Mycroft is sorry for. He made up for that by helping Sherlock with his suicide and keeping an eye on him while he was away. He even brought him back. I’ve forgiven him.”

Greg nodded. “Good, that’s good.”

Cas was just quietly standing near the railing, looking out over the cold sea. The burlap sack containing the selkie skin lay at his feet. He was feeling nauseous. Flying, or even driving, had never felt this bad. He tried to steady himself when he felt a hand on his back.

“You okay there, Cas?’ asked Greg.

He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t, so he just grunted and nodded.

John walked up, hands in his pockets. “Never been on a boat before, have you?”

The former angel shook his head.

“First time for everything, mate,” said Lestrade.

Castiel swallowed his impending vomit. “Yeah,” croaked the gravelly voice.

Suddenly, he pitched forward and threw up over the stern of the ship. The other two men rubbed his back comfortingly.

“Easy there, mate; let it out.”

Cas groaned as he emptied his stomach. He stood slumped over the railing and his hazy eyes drifted down to where the propeller was. Over on the corner, sitting on the ship, was the girl. “Guys,” he croaked.

“What?” Cas pointed shakily and the other two looked.

“There’s nothing down there.” Greg stood up after a moment.

“It- It was the girl. The selkie.”

“They can’t go into the sea without their skin. She must have stowed away,” thought John out loud.

Cas turned around and slumped. “We should,” he covered his mouth real quick but swallowed, “we should try to find her. Maybe,” he fell to all fours, “she can help.”

“Whoa,” John latched on to Cas’ left arm while Greg grabbed his right. “Oh no, you’re not going anywhere. We’re gonna get you down to the…”

_Come with us_

_Down to the sea_

_Come and dance_

_Dance away with me_

The three men froze, their eyes glazed over. They all stood up, Cas grabbing the sack.

_Play in the waves_

_Play with us tonight_

_Swimming, prancing_

_Until the morning light_

They turned around and walked to the railing.

“Oi! Wot ya doin’!” shouted the captain from the tower. The men didn’t listen. “Hey! HEY!”

_Sing, sing with the fish_

_And dance among the reeds_

_Come down and play with us_

_And forget your worldly needs_

Down they went, over the side.

“MAN OVERBOARD!” The captain rang the warning bell and a few of his crew came running, life preservers in hand. They lowered the dinghy into the water.

They searched the dark waves, spotlight dancing over the water, but there was nothing to be seen.

Of course there wasn’t. The instant the boys had hit, they woke from the spell. They barely had time to take a deep breath before they were pulled under the icy throes.

All three realizing what had happened, they each pulled out the silver knives and swung futilely at the things grabbing at their legs. Unfortunately, their captors also had sharp teeth, and the cold wasn’t helping the small cuts the men got on their legs.

They didn’t know they were being pushed away from the ferry until rough hands hauled them up by their jackets and dumped them into another boat. Somehow Cas had maintained hold of the bag containing the selkie’s skin, but now it was torn from his hand.

The men were bound and gagged and thrown into a dark, but warm, room with a wooden floor. Judging by the sound of the footsteps, a man was approaching them.

“’Night, laddies,” said a distinctly Scottish drawl, but then they saw stars and, a moment later, blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, this one is kind of short.


	8. The Iceman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea's found out what happened to Cas, Greg, and John. She tells Mycroft, and he tells the others. No one is happy.

The Holmes’ and Winchesters stepped out of King’s Cross Station and into a sleek, black car.

Sherlock wanted to go back to Baker Street, but Mycroft insisted that his house on the outskirts of London was safer, what with the armed guard the diplomat kept employed at all hours of the day.

“Is it really necessary, Mycroft?” whined Sherlock.

“Until we are all back, safe and sound, yes, I would prefer it.”

The younger Holmes huffed, but obeyed. He may be spiteful of his older brother, but there was a certain level of mutual respect and concern for the other’s safety. And now that John was in the picture, Sherlock secretly appreciated the extension of the circle of trust and care.

The four men wound up in Mycroft’s sitting room. Each had changed into clothes that had been moved there by one of the man’s many attendants. Sam stood, leaning against the mantle while Dean lounged in a (rather too comfortable) armchair, both of them nursing a lager that warmed their bellies pleasantly.

Anthea walked in. “Good, you’re home.” She strode over to Mycroft, who had just poured a cup of tea for himself and his brother. “Sir,” she whispered, “may I speak with you in private?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows but nodded. He took the cup to Sherlock, who was sitting on the sofa, before turning to follow his PA.

Sherlock gave a questioning look to his brother. Mycroft shrugged, barely, and waved the younger man down, discouraging him from following them. Whatever it was, it must be business related. Anthea wouldn’t have acted this way if it wasn’t. Sam and Dean watched curiously as they left.

They turned down the hall and entered the diplomat’s office. She shut the door behind them, secured it, and turned around. “Sir…” she began, obviously nervous about something, “I don’t know how to say this…”

“Plain is best, I should think, Anthea.” He sipped on his tea quietly, eyeing her. He was leaning casually on the front of his desk. He always wanted her to feel comfortable around him. It made both their jobs so much easier.

There was nothing in his face that relayed any emotion but calm, so she hesitantly continued, looking away. “It’s to do with Detective Inspector Lestrade and his team, sir.” She glanced up at her boss.

His blue eyes stared at her evenly, patiently. “What about them?” he pressed.

She swallowed, trying to hide behind the mask she’d carefully constructed just for him. “They’re missing.”

“What?” The teacup froze in the man’s hand. His eyes hardened.

She looked down, defeated. “The ferry to Orkney, sir. They got on, but they never got off.” She explained what she had learned from the informant who worked at St. Margaret’s Hope Ferry Station.

Mycroft’s voice was hard when she finished. “What about Dr. Watson’s and Detective Inspector Lestrade’s tracking devices?”

“Scrambled, sir. Or destroyed.”

Mycroft smoothly put his teacup in its saucer and placed it carefully on his desk. He stood up and slowly approached her.

She balked at the look on his face. She’d seen it before, of course, when he had wanted to hit home a certain point or threat when making negotiations. Great men cowered before this look. World leaders. “The Iceman’s Deathstare” it had been nicknamed, quite unoriginally. But when Mycroft Holmes used it, wars were won before they had even started. Countries surrendered without so much as a second’s hesitation. Queen Elizabeth herself tended to avoid it if she could. But never had he had occasion to use it on Anthea. Never, until now.

“Find. Them,” he hissed between his teeth.

“Ye- yes, sir,” she stammered. The woman backed away shakily. She turned and opened the door.

The men in front of the fire looked up as they heard the quick, hard clicking of Anthea’s heels marching down the hallway and out the front door.

A moment later, Mycroft walked in. His hand put down the teacup, possibly a little rougher than he should have, on the table next to his chair. Sherlock noted this and raised an eyebrow at his brother. Only another Holmes would be able to see just how distressed the man was.

“What is it, Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice almost hinted at concern at his brother’s condition.

The older man took in a breath, trying his hardest not to shake, before he relayed the information.

There was a second’s hesitation before Sam jumped forward, hooked his arms under Dean’s, and laced his fingers behind his brother’s head, effectively holding the man in place. Dean growled loudly and struggled against his moose of a brother. But he couldn’t get free, so he just glared.

Mycroft watched this with interest. Sam Winchester not only possessed a sharp mind but quick reflexes and great strength. He had moved the instant his brother had risen from the chair. He could be a valuable asset. Mycroft made a mental note to extend an offer of employment to the younger man when everything was said and done; but for now, all he could do was try to appease their brothers, who were about ready to burst.

Sherlock jumped off the couch. He wasn’t nearly as violent as Dean, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t just as angry. “Mycroft!”

The elder Mr. Holmes knew that, if they had the inclination, the three men could, and would, kill him right then and there; before any of his guards could get to them. It wasn’t the first time he’d been in a situation like this, and it likely wouldn’t be his last, he hoped. He did his best to try to stay calm, but his guilt overwhelmed him. He laid his hands on the back of his chair and slumped tiredly over it, needing the support.

“Sherlock, you know as well as I the reason why we were put into the teams we were. The Detective Inspector, Dr. Watson, and Castiel are all trained warriors.” Sam blinked at this. “Not that we all aren’t,” the man continued, “but they are something altogether different.”

He looked up into the eyes of the three men around him. Sherlock’s were a combination of green and blue, the dark hardness present due to his anger, as opposed to the icy white-blue of happiness or excitement. Sam’s were multi-colored, like the detective’s, but instead of blue, they had brown. They looked sad, and sympathetic. Patient. Dean’s eyes were solid green. Dark and heated with the reflected firelight, they burned a hole into the diplomat.

“I separated us as I did because of the chance of this very event occurring. Indeed, it was far less of a gamble for them to be captured than it was for us.” He came around to the front of his chair, thereby directly facing the men he was addressing. “If it had happened to us, they could play us against each other, as could they if we all stayed together. With those three away from us, and not having as close relationships to each other as they do with us, we were all safer.

“Lestrade is a Detective Inspector for Scotland Yard’s Homicide Department. He has been in and out of numerous hostage situations, including ones where he, himself, was the victim. John is a veteran of the war in Afghanistan. His military training no doubt included how to deal with various interrogation techniques and he is stout enough to withstand any weather conditions.”

“What about Cas?” growled Dean.

“Castiel, regrettably, is human now, and is therefore vulnerable to the elements. However, I have no doubt that his inherent skill and experience as a Warrior of God is still as sharp as it ever was. Fortunately, as I deduced, he does not allow the fact that he is no longer a member of the Host interfere with how strongly or skillfully he fights, especially when he fights for those he’s come to care for. It is because of these traits that I sent him with the Detective Inspector and Dr. Watson.”

“You’re right about Cas,” commented Sam calmly, still holding on to his brother. “If he thinks anyone he cares for is in danger, he’ll trade places with them in an instant and then fight to the last breath to get as many as he can to safety. He knows he can’t save everyone, but he tries.”

Sherlock nodded. “A trait he shares with both John and Lestrade.”

“They are good soldiers; a veritable army of three,” continued Mycroft. “Also, they’ve had to deal with the four of us and our own pig-headedness for years now. This makes them stronger than the average person, more attentive to the motives of those wishing to do them harm, and more resistant to said harm. I already have my best men working on it. They will, I have no doubt, be found and returned here within the next 48 hours.” He finished his speech and looked at each man in turn, his gaze lingering on the elder Winchester.

“You can let me go, Sammy,” Dean said quietly.

“Dean,” Sam pleaded.

“It’s alright.”

Sam frowned, but nodded. He eased his arms out from around his brother.

Dean rolled his neck and shoulders, which had been beginning to cramp. “I understand why you made the decisions you did, Mycroft. The tactical advantage of splitting us up the way you did.”

“Thank you. I am pleased to hear you say that.” The diplomat’s gaze on the hunter softened.

Dean frowned. “But it doesn’t change how I feel about it, or how pissed I am at you.”

Mycroft acknowledged this by dipping his head slightly. “I’d expect nothing less from the infamous Dean Winchester,” he said quietly.

The sound in the room died. Though the fire was blazing, it felt cold. Each man stared off into the distance, stewing in his own thoughts. Sam at least had the tact to pour them all a strong scotch. They all thanked him, but no true words were spoken.

They were no longer playing poker. Now the game was chess, and it was the other player’s turn.

Mycroft had the Winchester’s hotel room vacated and their things moved to his house, just for good measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, I know.


	9. Captive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Warrior's in trouble.

Castiel woke to the hood being ripped off his head. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. Shivering, he realized he was sitting in cold sand, but with a fire burning nearby. Thankfully, he could still feel his fingers.

He tried wiggling, but then realized he was bound with his hands behind him. His tongue pushed against the cloth in his mouth, but the gag was too tight. Behind him, someone groaned. A deep voice. Greg.

Cas turned his head and saw that the three of them were sitting back to back, tied together. He shoved the others with his shoulder, wriggling against the bonds. It woke John and immediately the three of them started looking around, attempting to assess the situation.

“None o’ that, now, lad.” A burly man with flaming red hair said as Cas shrugged his shoulders, straining against the ropes. He bent down and took the stubbled chin in his hand, forcefully making the sapphire eyes stare into emerald ones that held a malicious twinkle.

For a brief second, Cas was reminded of Dean. Only a second, though. His lover’s eyes were of a darker shade, and held warmth instead of ice.

The man took the gag off Cas’ mouth. “There now, better?” He gave a sharp-looking smile.

Castiel licked his usually chapped lips with a dry tongue. They tasted of sea water and he swallowed his disgust.

“Yer pretty, y’know that?” commented the man. Cas didn’t respond. He just looked over the man and tried to figure out how he could take him down. This was one of the few times he actually thanked his father for making him the warrior he was.

He smirked. “But I’m sure you already did.” He roughly released the former angel’s jaw and walked around to inspect Lestrade.

“Yer not so bad, yerself, ‘andsome.” He took the gag off. “Shame about the grey ‘air, though.” He grabbed the man’s short salt-and-pepper locks and held him tight, fingers digging into his scalp, pulling so Greg would look up at him.

The cop’s brown eyes and angled jaw hardened. He’d been in this type of situation before. He knew not to give anything away.

The man got the hint and continued on to John. “An’ another cutie. Well, well, looks like we’ve caught some right pretty fishes. Wot y’think, Aggie?” He turned to a woman behind him.

She walked up and looked over them the way the man had. Greg noted that she had the exact same shade of auburn hair as Mycroft. “They’ll do, Tavish.” She crouched in front of John. “This one’s a bit on the short side, though.”

The doctor snorted indignantly, which he instantly regretted.

“Oho,” laughed Tavish, “touchy, this one.” He kicked John in the thigh, hard. The blond man stifled a groan but the other two could feel him tense.

Aggie stood up, hands on her hips. “Still, it deepens the pool. And they aren’t _that_ bad looking. Also, judging by their condition after the water, they’re strong. Yes,” she looked up at the other man. “I think they’ll do nicely.”

“Good.”

“Do for what, exactly?” Greg barked, his curiosity getting the better of him. He knew he needed to get this Tavish talking. Talking for as long as he could.

“He speaks!” laughed the man. “Well, well, even better. Do your friends?”

Three pairs of eyes: one blue, one brown, and one grey, stared down the man above them, all hard, all unblinking.

“Ah, well, no matter. You’ll do for what our kind has always used yer kind for, indeed, the only thing yer kind is good for: expandin’ the gene pool.” He smirked.

“You’re plannin’ on breeding us? Like common dogs?”

“Why not?” Tavish waved a hand flippantly. “It’s wot ya are.”

“But won’t that lower the level of integrity of blood in your ranks?” Greg stared at the man’s back.

This stopped the Scot in his tracks. He turned, a malevolent grin on his face. “Aww, now, see, I thought you were ‘unters. I must ‘ave been mistaken.” He shrugged. “That’s alright. Less people out and abouts lookin’ fer ya.”

Greg looked confused, as did the other two. However, the cop was the only one who would speak. “Hunters? Like fisherman?” He paused, thinking a moment. “Or do you mean poachers?”

“Poachers we can deal with.” He walked over to one of the other lackeys he had standing in the shadows and took something from him. “Tell me, laddies,” he came back, “if ya aren’t ‘unters, then wot were ya doin’ with this?” He pulled out the selkie skin and showed it to them.

Greg shrugged. “It was just something we found. Looked like a seal skin to us. Was gonna turn it in. Thought there mighta been poachers somewhere out here.”

Tavish looked over at John and Cas, who gave him looks of concurrence with Greg’s statement. He wasn’t pleased. The large man came up and got right in Greg’s face. “Yer lyin’. I can tell.” He gave a great sniff. “I can smell it on you.” The cop didn’t answer.

He stood up. “Not only are you lyin’ about not bein’ ‘unters. But you know wot this is.” He held up the skin. “Ya woul’n’t ‘ave been ‘angin’ on t’ it if ya din’nt.”

He smelled it. “An’ not only do ya know wot it is, you know ‘oo’s it is, don’t ya?” He turned to the shadows. “Bring ‘er in, lads.”

There was a muffled yelp and a pale form was pushed forward, landing on her knees in the sand. Her hands were tied behind her back and there was a gag on her face. Her black hair lay draping around her and a dark pair of violet eyes glared out from underneath her bangs. Even after she fell, she managed to stand up as straight as she could, despite her position.

The red-haired man walked over to her and snapped her head back, large fingers buried in her hair. The three humans were now able to see her face. Cas sucked in a small breath, recognizing her as the selkie maid. Aggie glanced at him suspiciously, but he didn’t do anything else. She blew it off as concern for the young woman.

“Moira, darlin’. Ya wanna tell me ‘ow these vermin got a ‘old o’ yer skin?” She stared him right in the eye, daring him to continue. “No?” He threw her down into the sand. “I guess I’ll just ‘ave to ‘ide it better this time.” He walked away, putting the skin back in the burlap sack and handed it back to one of his men. “Can’t ‘ave ya runnin’ off again, can we?”

Now Tavish turned back to the three men. “Really? Me own wife. You fellas thought you’d take ‘er away from me, did ya? Fancy yerself a selkie maid? Not that I blame ya, she’s right perty enough. Then again,” he shrugged, “most of us are. Got a reputation t’ maintain, an’ all that.”

“Is that why you abducted us? Our looks?” John was a little shocked.

Aggie giggled. “Aww, ‘e’s got a cute little voice to go with ‘is cute little face.” John scowled at this.

“Would be good if we got a daughter from ‘im, don’t ya think?” added Tavish.

“Aye,” said the woman. “An’ I think I know just ‘oo to give ‘im to.” She tapped her cheekbone with one finger and smiled thoughtfully.

The doctor looked physically ill.

Unfortunately, Tavish had figured out, or, rather, smelled, who it exactly was that had been ‘after’ his wife. He came up to Cas and cut him away from the other two men. Hauling him up in one fist by the front of his jacket, the burly man brought the former angel’s face to his own. “You,” he growled quietly. “Yer mine.” He pointed to Greg and spoke louder, “This one’s the leader. Frang, take ‘im to the guest room. ‘Im and this one,” he shook Cas, “are joinin’ us for a pint.” He turned, dragging the former angel backwards as he walked.

“An’ the others?” asked Aggie.

“Throw ‘em in the ‘ole,” he called flippantly over his shoulder.

John wriggled frantically as he was cut loose from Greg, but it was no use. A man with a long, blond plait, presumably Frang, hauled the cop behind him after Tavish. John was pulled to his feet and pushed in the opposite direction, towards Moira.

The short man and the woman were taken down a short corridor to a dark niche that had been gated off. The guards threw them roughly to the ground and shut them in.

John’s head hit a rock and he blacked out, again.

*

Greg groaned and gritted his teeth, his back arching from the pain. Unfortunately, he’d been strapped down, so he couldn’t move much, let alone get away.

He and Castiel had been dragged into a well-lit cavern and stripped down to their pants. Frang had yelped when removing the cop’s silver necklace and immediately dropped it into the sand.

“Bloody bastard.” He punched Lestrade across the face before picking up the article using the man’s shirt.

Still dazed, the DI felt himself hauled to a table where he was tied down in the crucifix position. A leather gag was placed around his head and between his teeth. He felt like a horse with its bit, but he didn’t have long after his head cleared before he was punched again.

“’Ow did ya know about the ship in Edinburgh!” growled Tavish from the other side of the screen dividing the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lestrade could see the silhouette of the large man standing over Cas, the former angel groaning and twisting away from whatever the man was doing to him.

“You,” started Frang, bringing the gray-haired man’s attention back to him, “same question.”

Greg shook his head and shrugged.

“Wrong answer.” The blond smoothed a small knife down the cop’s ribs, the metal cold, before finding a place that pleased him. He turned the blade, slipping the sharp edge down against the skin.

“Aarrgh!” Lestrade mumbled something but couldn’t speak coherently against the gag.

“Wot?” asked Frang. The cop just gave him a look of _are you stupid?_

The interrogator took the leather out. “Wot?” he repeated.

Greg licked his lips before answering. “I said ‘It’d be bloody hard to get anything out of me if I can’t talk’.”

“Shut up,” snapped Frang, punching him in the face again. The DI spit out a bit of blood. One of his teeth was loose.

Cas growled and breathed heavily. This wasn’t the first time he’d been tortured. Most likely wasn’t going to be the last, either, what with the life he lived with the Winchesters. Didn’t mean he enjoyed what was going on.

He winced. The man, Tavish, had horrible breath, and his accent was grating. Not the smooth whiskey on the rocks he thought of when Dean talked to him.

The former angel couldn’t speak. Wouldn’t speak. He couldn’t risk giving away the fact that he wasn’t British. He understood that people from different places had different accents, but Jimmy had been from the United States, so that’s the accent Cas had been stuck with. He supposed he should try to learn to copy others, but right now really wasn’t the best time.

White flashed in front of Cas’ eyes, then red, when he felt a freezing cold knife cut into his arm. Nothing he hadn’t felt before. Cutting oneself with a silver knife was common enough of a test when it came to being a hunter.

He sputtered when Tavish threw water in his face. It was freezing, and salty, and some of it dripped down into a cut on his cheek, making it burn. He hissed, but over the pain he could hear Greg talking with the other man, Frang.

Castiel turned his head, seeing the divider, and beyond it, the shadow of a human writhing. A low growl emanated from the former angel’s throat. He had come to care for the other men. Not like he cared for Sam and Dean, of course, but John and Greg were friends now.

His hard, blue eyes grabbed the attention of the burly man positioned above him. Part of him wished he still had his angel mojo, at least a little to intimidate the man.

“Oh, so now we’re ‘ere,” laughed Tavish. “Excellent.” The red-haired man landed a hard punch in Cas’ side.

Castiel struggled to breathe, the wind knocked out of him. He groaned. This wasn’t going well.

Lestrade wasn’t faring any better. Unfortunately, Frang was as strong as he was dim-witted. Of course, after all the years spent around the Holmes’, almost everyone appeared dim-witted to him. Even Sergeant Donovan.

Greg panted as he threw what snark he could at the whatever-he-was ( _selkie?_ ). “I thought your boss said we were pretty. Now you’re gonna mess us up? That’s good.”

“Ya don’ ‘ave t’ be good-lookin’ t’ breed,” growled Frang, slamming is fist down on the cop’s thigh.

The man laughed off the pain shakily, “Really? Thought that was the requirement.”

Frang growled again and grabbed the silver knife from Greg’s jacket pocket.

A few seconds later, the DI’s deep voice resonated through the caves in a garbled scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if the speech of Aggie and Tavish doesn't exactly sound right. It's just, when spoken out loud, that's what it sounds like to me.


	10. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moira and Team Warrior make a break for it.

John jerked awake, his head pounding. He blinked, trying to force his eyes to adjust. It was difficult to try to sit, especially with his head swimming and his hands tied behind his back, but he found he could move his legs so he gingerly forced himself up.

He sat there, panting, in the gloom, until he heard a scream echo through the halls. A man’s scream. It was followed by a second one. At first he thought it was the same person, but the second one had a different pitch.

_They’re being tortured._ _Probably found out about the attack in Edinburgh._

“Good, you’re awake,” came a feminine voice, thick with a Scottish accent.

John turned to look at her, but that caused him to sway, his head spinning. “M- Moira?”

“Aye.” She scooted forward out of the gloom.

The doctor’s head cleared and found the violet eyes staring at him. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Yer the one that’s bleedin’.”

The doctor looked down over his body, which made him dizzy again. He scrunched his eyes against it only to feel the stickiness on his face. It was his head that was bleeding. Must have split something when he hit the rock. “Ugh,” he groaned.

“Though it’s pro’ly not as bad as yer friends.” She held still as another roar of pain echoed through their little cell.

“We- we have to get them out of there.” He tried to stand up. He made it, but then he had to slump against the wall for support, breathing heavily. A shiver rocked through him. It was still cold.

“Ya can’ go anywhere until ya feel better, so ya might as well sit.” Moira seemed resigned to her fate.

John sat, but not happily. “No, we’ve got to get home. We’ve got people that’ll be looking for us. Dangerous people.”

The woman gave a sharp bark of a laugh. It echoed with the sound of a seal. “An’ ya think I don’? I’m not ‘ere by choice, you know.” She wriggled against her bonds, trying to get her hands free.

“Here, let me,” offered John. He got up and slowly made his way over to sit behind the girl. “Give me your hands.”

“Wot are ya gonna do? Yer ‘ands are tied, too.”

“Don’t you worry about me. It’s not the first time I’ve had to deal with something like this.”

She gave a confused look. He just shook his head and pressed his fingers into the knots around her wrists.

The good doctor made short work of the bonds, and the young woman’s lithe fingers returned the favor. By the time they were free, John’s head had stopped aggravating him.

Now that he was in his right mind, he looked around. Using all the skills he had gained from his time in the military and mixing them with everything he had learned from Sherlock over the years, he took in as much information as he could.

John’s brow furrowed. _Think. Think._ He really should have tried building his own version of his boyfriend’s mind palace.

_The cave they were in was of natural formation. Limestone, as indicated by the pale white stalagmites forming on the ground. Nothing special about the smooth walls. The niche was too small to go farther in. It really was just a random natural hollow that the (whoever they were) decided to gate off into a holding cell. It most likely wasn’t the only one around, but it was obviously the most used, as there were older footprints in the sand. Well, what little sand there was. The floor became solid rock towards the back._ He dug his foot down. _Scratch that. It was all rock. Sand had been moved in here. Irrelevant? Perhaps._

“John?” Moira was worried. The man was standing there, eyes unblinking as he concentrated.

He held up one finger towards her. “Shh.”

The woman was taken aback, but curious.

_The gate. Iron, not silver. Good, that meant Moira could touch it._ He stepped forward, trying to see the paths _. So far, just the one guard. He had his back to them._

John patted himself down. Besides being sopping wet, and shivering ( _go away, I can’t afford to deal with you right now_ ), he was all in one piece, but he didn’t have any weapons. He knew that if he didn’t get his team out, they’d likely die of hypothermia.

That is, if Cas and Greg didn’t die from the torture first. That would be a waste, though. The terrorists wanted to breed them. They wouldn’t kill them before that happened.

But he couldn’t think about that right now. _Stay focused,_ came Sherlock’s voice in his head.

_Well, it’s bloody hard when I can hear them screaming!_

_All the more reason to work. All that matters is the work. Focus, John!_

He looked around again. Something was off about the guard. His head was cocked to the right, like he was listening for something, and he smiled every time a scream echoed through the halls. The problem was, the echoes were coming from the left.

John walked as quietly as he could up behind the guard. He snapped his fingers a couple times behind the man’s head. On the left, there was no reaction. On the right, though, the guard turned and growled at him. The doctor put his hands up and backed away.

_He’s deaf in his left ear. We can use that to our advantage._

He looked up. The top of the gate wasn’t connected to the rock, like the sides were, but the space was too small for either of them to climb through.

John looked around again. _The ropes._ He moved quietly over and picked up the discarded items.

Moira opened her mouth to speak, but he covered it and shook his head. He pressed a single finger to his lips. They needed silence if they were going to escape. They couldn’t risk the guard overhearing their plan, even if he was deaf in one ear.

The short man quickly went through his plan with her, using charades, simple gestures that she’d understand clearly. He watched as the light filled her eyes and she nodded, her face hardening.

Moira slipped forward, behind the guard but to the left, rope in her hand, her bare feet silent on the sand. Because she was taller than John (about as tall as Sherlock), she was able to easily, and quickly, flick the rope around the guard’s neck. With an effort, she pulled the man backwards and down, choking him. John jumped forward, covering his mouth and pinching his nose shut, effectively canceling out a cry for back-up. Whether he passed out or they killed him, at this point, John didn’t care. Now all he could hear was Cas roaring. Greg’s voice had stopped.

_Oh, God, I hope he’s not dead._

_Focus, John,_ rang Sherlock’s voice in his head again.

_Right._ The guard was thrashing now, but it was steadily growing slower. He couldn’t do much, being bound against the gate as he was. Soon he went limp. John let go of him and took the rope from Moira. He quickly tied his hands, sliding them between the bars of the gate before doing so.

After a moment of fumbling, Moira unclipped the keys from the guard’s belt and had unlocked the gate. The man had been stationed on the hinge side, the right side, so it was easy for them to slip out. They locked the gate behind them, and put the keys back on the clip.

John knew they’d never be able to get away completely undetected, if any of the others had the same sense of smell that Tavish had, but they could at least try.

Before running off down the hall, John stole the guard’s knife. He quickly cut the man’s arm. He groaned, but didn’t wake up. John took some of the dripping blood and wiped it on his arms and chest and neck.

Moira stared at him, utterly appalled. “Wot are ya doin’?” she whispered.

“It’ll hide our scent, at least a little bit.”

She frowned, not liking where this was going, but did the same thing.

Moira scouted ahead a bit, and after a couple seconds, in which John checked behind them, she ran back and waved him forward. In this manner, they made it to the room where they had met Tavish and the others. It was abandoned at the moment, but they soon heard footsteps.

Tavish and Frang were coming down the hall. They were wiping blood off their hands. Frang kept his usual dim-witted deadpan on, but Tavish looked angry. They were speaking to each other in a language John didn’t understand.

He and Moira hid behind a couple of large stalagmites as the two men passed. As soon as they were gone, they ran. They had about a minute and a half before they discovered the deaf guard.

In the “guest room”, they found Greg and Castiel still tied down, panting heavily, blood dripping into the sand below.

Greg was covered in various cuts and bruises, and judging from the color of his upper left arm, John believed it was broken. The doctor ran over to the cop and untied him. The taller man was unconscious, more likely due to the pain than being hit in the head, as there were no lacerations in his hair.

Moira ran over to Cas. As she untied him, he groaned, opening his eyes at her. She stuck a finger to her lips. He nodded and slowly climbed off the table. He was in as bad a shape as Lestrade, but nothing was broken, and he could walk.

“Moira,” whispered John, “how do we get out of here?” He came around the divider, the cop slung over his left shoulder. The old wound would pain him when they got home, but he couldn’t worry about that right now.

“Out in the other room, there’s a small, private dock.” She was holding Cas steady.

John nodded and turned. It wasn’t difficult. It wasn’t the first time he’d helped a soldier out of a tight place by carrying him. Despite his short stature, the doctor was very strong. Something he knew Sherlock admired in him.

On the way out, Cas spotted the burlap sack containing Moira’s seal skin. He snatched it as they passed. The woman reached for it but he shook his head.

It took them a few minutes to get back to the large room. Moira led them down a path where they found a small boat hidden. She helped Cas get in, and then John eased Greg into the former angel’s lap.

“Mind his arm,” John said as he and Moira pushed the boat into the water. It was tiny. A rowboat. But if it meant they could get away silently, then so be it.

They hadn’t gotten far when they heard Tavish roar with anger. Barking orders to his men, they transformed; not only into seals, but other ocean animals as well. All of them jumped in and soon they had overtaken the small boat, knocking the passengers into the water.

Greg was the first to slip out of sight. His unconscious state made him an easy target for the (what they now knew were) finfolk. Next was Moira. Apparently she couldn’t swim without her seal skin on. John considered that fact rather impractical. The doctor felt a pull on his leg. He tried fighting back, but the cold was getting to the old gunshot wound in his shoulder. It rendered his left arm completely useless, which threw him off balance.

Just as he was pulled down, he watched, rather than heard, Castiel shout something. Then the former angel was pulled down as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John does learn from Sherlock, even if Sherlock isn't paying attention.


	11. What the hell?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the hell?

Echoed notes bounced around the lofty sitting room. It was a tradition for the Holmes brothers to portray their emotions through their instruments, rather than their faces. Music, being basic mathematics, a simple repeated count to four, had always helped ground the geniuses. It kept them calm as they sorted out their thoughts and feelings.

Sherlock’s fingers caressed the strings of his violin in time with the bow. Without asking (without needing to, really), Mycroft had sent one of his men to pick it up from Baker Street. The younger Holmes swayed his body slowly as he stared out the window into the bright, sunlit snow. He never appreciated the aesthetic of a clear winter day with new-fallen snow, but he knew John did, and that made him miss the doctor more.

A deep complement danced its way out from underneath Mycroft’s hands as he played his grand piano. The ever-present umbrella leaned softly against the bench beside him. His back was straight as a board, eyes closed, allowing his fingers to drift as they pleased. He attributed the connection to Sherlock’s playing as part of their brotherly bond.

Dean was used to listening to his iPod when brooding. Classic rock had this power to it, he’d always thought; this power to drown out anything and everything, allowing him to think clearly. He had to admit, though, the other men were skilled. He sat, stewing, with a whiskey, in one of the plush armchairs by the hearth, listening to the lilting melody. Given the current situation, he was developing a new appreciation for the genre. The elder Winchester had no idea the Holmes’ were making it up as they went.

Sam sat across from his brother. Over the back of Dean’s chair, he watched as Mycroft and Sherlock played. He’d always enjoyed classical music. It had helped him a lot back when he was still going to Stanford. This song, however, was unfamiliar. The younger Winchester had sat down with the intention of reading. An original copy of _The Hobbit_ sat closed in his lap, his forefinger holding the page. (He had been happily surprised to find that it was signed by Tolkien himself.) Instead, he had gotten lost in the melody, watching as the brothers coordinated their playing without even acknowledging the other’s existence.

The song came to an end. Sherlock dropped the violin from under his chin and slouched his shoulders, sighing. Mycroft slowly closed the cover over the keys, smoothing his fingertips over the varnished wood. The four men were silent as the remaining notes faded away.

“Sir!” Anthea burst through the door, her phone beeping at an alarming tempo. Before she could continue, however, another voice bellowed from outside.

“MYCROFT HOLMES! YOU OPEN THIS BLOODY DOOR RIGHT NOW OR SO HELP ME I’LL KILL YOU MYSELF!”

The Holmes brothers looked at each other for a split second. “John.” They darted towards the front door, Sherlock tossing his violin on the sofa gently. The Winchesters weren’t far behind.

Standing outside in the snow, soaked, shivering, and surrounded by several of Mycroft’s gun-wielding agents, was the rest of their party. John was holding Greg, who was still unconscious, off the ground with one shoulder, while in his other hand was clutched the burlap sack. A young woman with dark hair and violet eyes bore most of the weight of a barely-conscious Castiel, her face a hardened scowl.

“At ease,” barked Mycroft. Immediately the guns were holstered and the agents melted back into the snow and surrounding trees. “Get them inside, quick.”

The Holmes brothers stepped towards John, who deposited Greg over Mycroft’s back.

“Mind his arm, it’s broken,” grunted the doctor. The diplomat nodded and headed towards the house as Sherlock wrapped his long arm around his boyfriend and escorted him in as well.

The Winchesters took the other two members of the party.

Dean, of course, growled at Cas for getting hurt, but he nevertheless picked up the former angel bridal-style. Cas gingerly wrapped his arms around his boyfriend’s neck, his head tucking down into the warmth, as his numb legs were scooped out from underneath him. Dean didn’t care that the man was almost the same size he was. He knew he wouldn’t strain his back or shoulders.

Sam offered a hand to the young woman. She was very proud, he could tell, but she appreciated the gesture. They walked side-by-side quickly and shut the door behind everyone.

Anthea had people running around fetching hot tea, blankets, bandages, medical supplies, etc. She was quick and methodical and calm. Her boss nodded to her in gratitude, and she nodded back. It was her job, after all.

“Let me look at them,” growled John, as soon as the cleaning supplies and bandages arrived. Sherlock noticed the shorter man couldn’t move his left arm or hand.

“John, your shoulder…”

“DAMN MY SHOULDER, SHERLOCK! Our friends are dying, now help me!”

The detective saw the fire in the eyes of the man he loved. When John was calm, they were the quiet gray of the London sky after a rain. Now they were a brilliant, hard blue, like sapphires. He knew not to question anything when they were like this. The blogger was gone. This was the soldier he was speaking to. Captain John H. Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers.

Sherlock nodded. “Tell me what to do.”

John, Sherlock, and Mycroft tended to Greg, who, though still unconscious, was reacting well to the warmth and attention. Sam and Dean tended to Cas. Anthea ran around ordering people about and fetching things. She draped a warm blanket around Moira’s shoulders, plopped her down on the sofa (“Mind my violin!”), and pushed a cup of tea into her hands.

“Anthea, don’t let her touch that!” barked John as he noticed the young woman sliding towards the bag containing her skin. The PA quickly snatched it up and away. The doctor nodded and turned back to the cop. Moira just scowled.

When he had finished with Lestrade, John turned to Castiel. The Winchesters had done a pretty good job of bandaging up their friend, but they always appreciated a professionally trained eye when they could get it. He had to fix a few things, but not much.

*

The sun had set. It was suppertime, but no one was hungry. Everyone was in the sitting room in front of the fireplace.

They had cleaned up and warm clothes had been provided for Greg, Castiel, and John. When offered a change of outfit, Moira had politely declined, stating that she’d rather just keep the blanket. Anthea didn’t push it.

Lestrade still hadn’t woken up and it was starting to worry the doctor. The Detective Inspector was laying out in the recliner Sam had occupied earlier, wrapped in a thick comforter. He was breathing evenly, usually, but a furrowed brow and occasional groan gave away just how much pain he was in.

Across from him sat Castiel, also wrapped up. His head lay against one of the wings of the armchair and his eyes were closed. He wasn’t asleep, but Dean had insisted that he rest. A steaming, but untouched, cup of tea sat on the table next to him.

The elder Winchester sat at his boyfriend’s feet, like a hound protecting its charge. His hand was tucked up into the folds of fabric, holding the other man’s.

After moving his violin to a safer place (laying it on top of Mycroft’s piano), Sherlock took a similarly-blanketed Doctor Watson and lay him down on the sofa. The blond head lay in the detective’s lap as the thin man’s hands relentlessly kneaded the muscles around his boyfriend’s left shoulder. The warmth had put feeling back into the arm and now the short man groaned as it was wracked with pain and tremors. He clenched his jaw, his legs curling up a little with each wave of feeling.

Sam leaned against the mantle, keeping an eye on everyone. A tumbler of scotch sat in his hand, barely touched.

Mycroft stood on the other side, staring intensely into the fire and thinking. He tried not to scowl, but his hands clenched the handle of his umbrella, his normally pale knuckles turning even whiter. Finally, sighing, he turned to the young woman sitting in the corner. “So, Miss MacConner, care to explain what you are doing here?”

She looked up at him, confused. “’Ow did ya know ‘oo I am?”

“I know your mother,” he said simply.

Moira paled.

The other men looked up at him. “What?” groaned John.

Mycroft turned to them. “The selkie Alpha I was sending you to visit, Deirdre MacConner, is Moira’s mother. I’d heard that she had gone missing, and then you showed me the skin at King’s Cross. I thought, _I hoped_ , that they were the same woman. How else would a selkie be so far south? By taking the skin with you, you all but guaranteed that she would follow secretly; so not only were you informing Ms. MacConner of the operation in Edinburgh, but you were returning her lost daughter to her. Unfortunately, our own findings in the city did not have the desired result and we were forced to retreat.”

Cas nodded. “They knew. About the attack, I mean. The men who grabbed us were the ones running the operation.” He tried sitting up a little straighter, but winced and couldn’t.

“The leader, Tavish, said that Moira was his wife,” added John. “No doubt he’d noticed that she’d gone missing.”

“And in noticing she’d disappeared, he must have canceled the operation in Edinburgh.” Sherlock concluded, running his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair.

“That is unfortunate.” Mycroft looked at his feet, thinking. “It seems our quest for stealth was compromised. Now I must turn to the direct route.” He looked to his PA. “Anthea, would you kindly escort Miss MacConner to my office? I will be there shortly.”

Anthea nodded. “This way, please.”

Moira wasn’t happy at being dismissed, but she followed the older woman out of the room.

“Direct route?” asked Dean once the women left. “What do you mean?”

The diplomat sighed. “The connection is not safe, but I do have a direct link to Ms. MacConner. Only certain things may be said over a line such as this, but hopefully I can arrange something.”

The elder Winchester stood up. “You mean to tell me that this, all of this,” he gestured to the three injured men, “could have been avoided with only a phone call?”

Mycroft looked tired. “All of it, no. Some of it, yes; regrettably.”

“You mean Cas nearly DIED for no reason?” Dean was shaking, his fists balled in anger.

“Dean,” pleaded Sam and Cas together.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock glared daggers at his brother, but he could do nothing with John’s head in his lap.

The older man grew impatient. “I thought I had already explained all of this to you.” He turned to his brother. “Sherlock, I know you understand.”

“Answer the question,” growled Dean. Sam was standing at the ready, should he need to incapacitate his brother again. They may have cured his demonhood, but the Mark of Cain still rode on Dean’s arm, making his temper sometimes hard to control.

Now Mycroft grew angry in return. He stomped the tip of his umbrella on the floor, much like a small child would their foot. “Don’t you dare think, even for one second, that you two were the only ones with their hearts on the line with this mission!” He was very close to shouting. The fire reflected in his blue eyes was at war with the ones in Sherlock’s and, especially, Dean’s.

“Oi, Mycroft, could you keep it down? I’m tryin’ t’ sleep here.”

The diplomat whirled around and kneeled beside the Detective Inspector. His anger was forgotten as he ran his fingers gently through the salt-n-pepper hair. “Gregory, you’re all right,” he whispered, his eyes on the verge of tears.

Greg laid his right hand on the other man’s cheek and smiled tiredly. “Yeah, Myc. I’m all right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm a hopeless romantic.


	12. Damage Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg share a secret. Mycroft does his job.

The others watched in stunned silence as the tender moment passed between the two older men.

John was the first to recover. He smiled and gave a quiet chuckle.

Sherlock scowled down at him. “What?”

“Nothing. I’m just glad, that’s all.”

“They’ve been hiding this from us, and you’re _glad_?” The detective was appalled.

“Hiding? They were open books, the two of them. You were just too busy to notice. Or too arrogant.” John laughed again.

“I notice everything,” the curly-haired man scoffed.

“Apparently not,” smirked Sam. Sherlock glared at him as well.

Dean just backed up, flopping himself down beside Cas’ feet again. The former angel placed a hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder. The green-eyed man looked up and was met with a small smile. Somehow, his anger melted away.

Mycroft placed a gentle kiss to Lestrade’s forehead and squeezed his hand tightly. They became aware of the others watching them. The younger man stood up and quickly dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. “I apologize for letting my temper get the better of me. That won’t happen again.”

“Myc,” said Greg quietly, squeezing back.

“No, Gregory. I…”

“Hey,” the DI pulled gently on the other man’s hand, making him look into the brown eyes. “It’s okay to lose your temper once in a while. You did what you thought was best.”

John sat up. “That’s right. You trusted us to do a job. Something that you didn’t trust your own agents to do.”

“We were all there when the mission was assigned, Mycroft,” put in Castiel. “We all agreed to it. There was a reason you put us into the teams you did.”

“And we didn’t argue the facts,” continued John. “The Holmes brothers are hardly ever wrong,” he took Sherlock’s hands and pressed his forehead against the other man’s, “so why would we have reason to doubt you?”

“What we’re trying to say, love,” added Greg, “is that we forgive you.”

Mycroft looked around to meet everyone’s eyes.

Sam smiled and raised his glass to him.

Cas gave a solemn nod, light shining from his blue eyes.

Dean sighed heavily and laid his head against Cas’ knee. “Yeah.”

Sherlock stared evenly, his body still connected to John’s. “Of course, brother.”

The doctor just smiled happily.

Greg gave him a gentle kiss on the hand, stroking it with his thumb.

The elder Holmes exhaled deeply, relaxing his posture. He looked absolutely exhausted. “Thank you, all of you.”

There was a moment of silence between the three couples and the youngest man. Finally Sherlock asked, “How long?”

Greg and Mycroft looked at him. “Since a few months after your ‘suicide’,” answered his brother.

“So you told him about it then? About how you knew I was alive?” John’s face darkened and the detective slipped an arm around the shorter man’s shoulders.

“No. You and I planned that months in advance. I wasn’t going to let everything fall apart just because I fell in love.”

“And you were okay with that?” John asked Lestrade.

“At first, no. But after Sherlock came back, Myc explained everything to me. I still didn’t like it, but I understood why it had to happen, and I forgave him.”

“And you two have been dating since then?” asked Sam.

“Actually….” Greg bit the inside of his cheek nervously and looked up at Mycroft.

The diplomat sighed and pulled his hand away from the other man’s. He undid his tie and slipped it off. Then, unfastening a few buttons of his shirt, he pulled out a silver chain hanging around his neck. On it was a simple titanium ring. “We’re married,” he stated, finishing Lestrade’s sentence.

Sherlock looked up at them sharply. “When did this happen?”

“About six months ago.” Mycroft refastened his shirt.

John nodded. “So before Sherlock and I got together,” he said. Whether it was to the others or to himself, it didn’t matter.

“And you didn’t even invite your own brother!” The younger Holmes was annoyed.

“We wanted to,” put in Greg as he handed his husband the tie. “We really did, but with Mycroft’s job, well, you know how it is.”

“We couldn’t risk anyone knowing, Sherlock. You know how many potential enemies I have… If they even got a whiff of me having a weakness, well…” Mycroft couldn’t continue but he gently caressed the cop’s cheek.

“Does anyone know?” asked the doctor.

Mycroft nodded. “Just Anthea. She was our witness. Not even Mummy and Father know.”

“You sound like you’re the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. or something,” commented Dean.

Greg’s brown eyes leveled with the Winchester’s green ones. “Try higher.”

“The council?” spat Sam, getting the analogy. Mycroft wouldn’t meet anyone’s faces.

“Keep going,” pushed John.

It all clicked. “’ _Minor government position’_ my ass. You _are_ the British Government, aren’t you?” Sam didn’t know whether to be happy, surprised, or afraid.

For the second time that week, Mycroft gave Dean the same feeling he’d had whenever he’d been around Death. No one person should hold that much power, in his opinion. “Jesus Fucking Christ.”

“Dean,” Cas said quietly.

“Sorry.”

Mycroft cleared his throat loudly. Lestrade just smiled up at him encouragingly.

“I hope you all understand now,” started the diplomat. “Understand that I felt the same way you did. That I disagreed with the plan, like you did, but I still made the call because it was the right choice.” The diplomat had regained control of himself.

It was silent in the room except for the crackling fire, but it was a comfortable silence. An accepting one.

“So what now?” asked Sam.

The elder Holmes took a deep breath and released it, squaring his shoulders. “Now, I have some damage control to attend to.” He picked up his umbrella. “Doctor Watson, would you please see to Gregory’s wounds again, now that he’s awake.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be back soon, dear.” Mycroft kissed Lestrade’s cheek and squeezed his hand.

The cop smiled at him. “I know you will.”

With that, the diplomat exited the room.

*

“Apologies, Miss MacConner, for taking so long,” Mycroft said upon entering his office. The neutral mask of diplomacy covered his face once again.

“Quite all righ’, Mr. ‘Olmes. Care t’ tell me wot ya plan t’ do with me?” Moira faced him, back straight, chin high.

“Return you to your mother of course. But first I need you to do something for me.”

“An’ that would be?”

“All in good time.” He indicated the sofa next to the window. “At present, though, I need to make a call to your mother. I would rather she didn’t see you.”

She looked at him suspiciously as she sat down. “Alrigh’.”

Mycroft nodded and gave a polite smile. Then he walked over to what appeared to be a flatscreen television mounted on the wall. He turned it on and Moira realized it was a computer with a touchscreen. He opened a program and dialed a number.

After three rings, a middle-aged woman with raven hair and stern eyes answered. “Good evenin’, Mr. ‘Olmes. T’ what do I owe the pleasure?”

Moira tried to stand up, recognizing her mother on the screen, but a sharp look from Anthea, who was also out of frame, told her to stay put and stay silent.

“I wanted to check in on a dear friend, of course. I was wondering how your search for your daughter was going and whether or not you would care to join me for dinner tomorrow. I know this wonderful little place not far from you. Their seafood sampler platter is simply to die for, and company is really very nice when one is in emotional turmoil.” He smiled a sympathetic, yet knowing, smile.

Apparently she got it and smiled back. “It is indeed. Well, I shall check my schedule.”

“Excellent. I’ll have my Personal Assistant send you the details.” He turned and nodded towards Anthea.

She punched a few lines of text into her phone and sent it over the line they knew was secure.

A moment later, a jingle and a young man’s voice was heard off screen. The woman turned and nodded.

“Thank you, Mr. ‘olmes. Per’aps I will. But I must ask, why the call? Why not just use yer PA?”

Mycroft gave a wink and a (fake) bashful smile. “Oh, come now, Deirdre, you know I prefer the _personal_ touch.”

Her face flashed some emotion, but it was gone before anyone but Mycroft could see it. She re-erected her own diplomatic mask and smiled. “Yes, I suppose ya do. Unfortunately, I’m goin’ t’ ‘ave t’ cut this short. I ‘ave a meeting to attend to.”

The man waved his hand flippantly. “Of course.” He gave a jovial smile. “Our work is just never finished, is it?”

She nodded. “I’m afraid not. Good evenin’, Mr. ‘olmes.”

“Good evening, Mrs. MacConner. And happy holidays.” He gave a small bow.

She inclined her head and ended the call.

Mycroft turned off the computer before turning to Moira. “Well, that was interesting. Let us hope everything goes to plan.”

She looked at him, confused. “Wot, exactly, did ya do?”

He raised his eyebrows and frowned. “Hmm, I see your mother hasn’t yet completed your training.”

“Oi! Wot’s that suppose t’ mean!” She stood up, angry.

Mycroft waved her off. “Nothing of import, my dear.” He turned to Anthea. “Please make sure Miss MacConner is safe and comfortable tonight. Any accommodations for food, sleep, clothing, et cetera, shall be met, am I quite clear?”

“Crystal, sir.” Anthea looked up from her phone and beckoned to the young woman. “If you please, Miss MacConner.”

“Where are we goin’?”

“Somewhere safe and comfortable,” she smiled, quoting her boss.

“An’ wot about my skin?” she snapped.

The diplomat frowned. “I do apologize, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to hang on to that for now. Just for insurance purposes, of course. You will have it returned to you at the appropriate time, you have my word.”

She didn’t like him. She didn’t like him at all. But apparently her mother trusted him to some degree, so she acquiesced. The younger woman followed the older out of the office and down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mystrade is so cute. ^_^ Mycroft will always be bae to me.


	13. Winchesters and Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it possible to have been killed that many times? And how did Cas, Greg, and John get to Mycroft's house?

Mycroft was just a few steps behind them. When he came to the door of the sitting room, he entered, shutting and securing it after Anthea and Moira shut the front door behind them. The man turned and gave a great huff, leaning against the wall for support.

“How’d it go?” John was kneeling in front of Greg, checking his bandages. The cop’s willingness to move helped the doctor immensely, but there wasn’t much he could do about the broken arm.

The diplomat deposited his umbrella in the available caddy before coming over. “About as good as I’d hoped, but the end result remains to be seen. How is it going in here?”

Sam and Sherlock sat on the sofa, watching as the doctor took care of the cop. Dean was still on the floor in front of Cas.

Greg winced. “About as well as it was. Unfortunately, I’m not going to be able to go to work like this.” He tilted his head towards his arm. “Or if I do, all I can do is paperwork.”

“Nonsense,” put in Sherlock. “Once it’s cast, you can run around just as much as I can.”

“Tell that to the wounds in his abdomen,” commented John, moving down to that area.

“That bad, huh?” Lestrade groaned.

“Unfortunately.” The shorter man got up and moved the chair into the full recliner position. The cop hissed in pain and his right hand gripped the arm until his knuckles were white.

Mycroft moved the side table out of the way and kneeled next to his husband, taking the hand in his right while his left reached up to stroke the man’s hair.

Greg looked over into the concerned blue eyes. His physical pain didn’t lessen any, but he did feel better knowing the man he loved was there beside him, smiling. “You’re definitely not letting me go back to work any time soon, are you?” He tried to laugh, but the cuts to his abdomen turned it into a groan.

“Definitely.”

“Thought so. I take it you’ll arrange it so I use up all my sick days then?”

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll do you one better. I can make it so you were called away on a special mission. You’re still working, all three of you,” he nodded to Sherlock and John, “but not at where you normally would. Plus, it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. Vacation time for the holidays is not unheard of.”

“I suppose so.” Greg lay back in the chair, allowing his friend to do what he could.

It wasn’t much, as the good doctor didn’t have any of his usual supplies available, but they were still recovering from their dips into the sea. He didn’t want them to be moved into the cold again, even for just the small amount of time it took to move to and from the car. “Mycroft, what do you have for antiseptic?”

The diplomat shrugged. “Not much I’m afraid, after earlier. I can go check the bathroom for some more rubbing alcohol or iodine if you like.”

“Here,” said Sam, getting up. He walked over to Mycroft’s alcohol cupboard and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. “This usually works for us,” he added as he handed John the bottle.

“Thanks.” John uncorked it. Mycroft didn’t look too pleased but the doctor just said it was faster. Then he handed the bottle to Greg, who took a good swig from it. “It helps dull the pain, too.”

John finished up with Gregory quickly after that. Everything was much easier now that he could move his arm. He turned around. “Cas, let’s see what you look like.”

The former angel looked in the fire, refusing to meet the doctor’s eyes. “I’m fine,” he said, but the look on his face said he was in pain.

“Cas”, pushed Dean with a little growl.

He sighed and stood up, taking the blanket off and handing it to the man at his feet. His cuts were shallow. Tavish had been more concerned with keeping him alive and talking (not that he did talk) instead of beating him to a pulp, like Frang had done to Greg. Still, they hurt and he asked for the whiskey.

While he was working, John explained what had happened to them. By the time he finished talking, he was sitting on the sofa, cuddled up against his detective.

“Well, that explains why Gregory and Castiel were wearing nothing but their pants out in the freezing air,” commented Mycroft when he had finished.

“I really ought to build a mind palace of my own,” John added. “It probably would have helped.”

“Sounds to me like you’ve got a good one started already, John,” said Sherlock, giving the shorter man a small hug. “You always were clever.”

“I do have one question though: How the hell did we get here?” The doctor looked around at the other men. Greg shrugged. Mycroft, who was perched on the arm of the recliner next to him, holding his hand, shook his head.

“Don’t ask me. I was just as surprised as the rest of you,” said Sam, putting his hands up defensively. “I’m glad you’re all okay, though.”

“Yeah, if you call being tortured ‘okay’,” scoffed Greg.

“Trust me, we do,” answered Dean. “If I’m still upright and talking, I’m okay.”

Cas nodded. “We three have died enough times that any new day we’re still breathing is a good one.”

The four British men looked at the three Americans in surprise and confusion.

“Just how many times have you three died?” asked Lestrade.

They thought for a moment, each counting out on his fingers.

“At least six times for me, that I can remember, anyway: When I got stabbed at Azazel’s playing field, when we got shot and met Joshua, when Uriel killed me when we went back in time to stop Anna from killing Mom, when we had to turn into ghosts to stop Alastair from killing the reapers, when I jumped into Lucifer’s cage with Michael, and when I was trying to get over the Trials and Dean tricked me into allowing Gadreel to possess me,” said Sam.

“Seven for me,” added Dean. “When we were in the crash with Dad and I met Tessa, when I went to Hell, when we got shot, when we turned into ghosts, when I went to ask Death to bring your soul back from the Cage, when Cas and I ganked Dick Roman and got thrown into Purgatory, and when Metatron stabbed me and I became a demon. Though, remember, Sammy, Ash said that we’d done it more than that, and that the angels erased our memories.”

The younger Winchester nodded. “Oh, that’s right. Cas?” He turned to the former angel.

He scrunched up his face, thinking. (Dean had always thought it was kind of cute when he did this.) “Um, since I met you two: killed by Raphael when you set Lucifer free, killed by Lucifer before you two fell into the Cage, when the Leviathans took over and walked me into that reservoir, when Dean and I killed Dick Roman and went to Purgatory, though I don’t think we were really ‘dead’ per se, and when April stabbed me… So five times, I guess, though I don’t really know.” He shrugged. “Not with how much Naomi messed with my memory.”

Dean laid his hand on his boyfriend’s knee. He knew how the former angel felt about the memories concerning Naomi.

Sam turned to the other four men, smiling. “So all that, plus too many close calls to count. In fact, most of those I wouldn’t even call ‘dead’. We weren’t even fully dead, like, beyond recovering, just one step before.”

The Holmes brothers and their significant others just stared. Mycroft started shaking a little. He slid off the arm of the chair and fell to the floor, eyes unblinking. Greg watched him, concerned.

“Myc, you all right?”

The diplomat tried to speak, but no words would come, so he just shut his mouth and nodded.

John rubbed his forehead. “How… How is that even possible?”

The Winchesters gave an amused frown and shrugged. “Our own stubbornness?” stated Dean.

“Fate?” continued Sam.

“God?” concluded Cas.

Sherlock was in a similar state as his brother. His hands clutched at John’s sleeve. His mouth was dry, but he managed to croak out, “Is that how you escaped? How you ended up here? God?”

“Couldn’t be,” said Greg. He was the first to accept what the Americans were saying. After everything that had already happened to them, he didn’t see any point in fighting it. He had always been practical that way, a trait he knew Mycroft admired in him. “Cas said no one knows where God is.”

Sam and Dean nodded and looked at the former angel.

Castiel sighed. “Hannah.”

“What?” spat Dean in confusion. “What does she have to do with this?”

“I prayed to her,” answered the man, as if it was the only answer necessary.

“Who’s Hannah?” John held Sherlock’s head in his lap now, running his fingers through the curls. The detective was still trying to wrap his mind around everything.

“She’s another angel.” Sam didn’t look as upset as Dean did, but considering he hadn’t been directly threatened by the woman and Dean had, it was understandable.

Cas nodded. “Yes, and the only one I would trust to help us as Tavish and the others tried taking us down. She was the only one I could think of who would, and/or could, help us.”

“I had agents working on your disappearance as soon as I heard of it,” remarked Mycroft, having found his voice at last. “It was only a matter of time before we located your tracking devices.”

“Is that why your assistant’s phone was beeping?” inquired Sam.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, but it was only for John’s.” The man looked up at his husband. “Where’s your’s, Gregory?”

“It’s back at their base.”

“Then we must get it back.” Mycroft stood up, angry.

Greg gripped his hand to keep him from walking away. “We will, don’t worry. Obviously the signal was scrambled or you’d’ve found us earlier, am I right?”

“Of course,” scoffed the diplomat.

“Well, alright then. Sit down and don’t worry about it.”

Mycroft sighed and perched himself on the arm of the chair again.

“Besides, we don’t know exactly where the base is, and it’s not like we had to find our way back,” commented John.

Sherlock finally added his voice to the scene with, “An unknown tracking device hidden in plain sight is a wonderful idea. What is it hidden in?”

Greg and Mycroft chuckled softly. “My wedding ring, of course,” said the DI. “On a silver chain, no less. That oaf Frang burned his hand taking it off of me.” He laughed a little harder at this, but the cuts in his belly cut it short.

“Brilliant,” commented Sherlock.

Sam just smiled and shook his head.

Dean was still miffed. “If the angels are the ones who rescued you, how come you guys are still injured? Lay down a little mojo and you three woulda been fixed right up.”

Cas shook his head. “I don’t know.”

There was a _flip-flap_ sound, quiet, but instantly recognizable. To the Winchesters, at least. A glowing piece of paper appeared on the mantle, getting everyone’s attention.

Sam and Dean raised their eyebrows at each other. Cas gave a small smile. John hummed, curious. Sherlock squinted at the paper, unsure of its existence. Greg just looked up at Mycroft.

The diplomat got up and picked up the piece of paper, opening it. It looked plain, but the writing on it was silver, with a sort of electric blue-white light coming off of it. It was too bright for him to look at directly. After a moment, he shrugged. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what language this is.” He looked up at the others.

Sam stood up and walked over to him, taking the paper. Looking it over, he nodded. “Oh, it’s Enochian.”

Mycroft looked at him, amazed. “Can you read it?”

The larger man shook his head. “No. Even if I could, I can’t look at it.” He shut the paper. “I think it’s been written in Grace, instead of ink.” He turned towards Cas. “Can you read it?”

The former angel sat up in the chair a little bit, holding out his hand. “I can try. I don’t know how well I will be able to perceive such energy, now that I’m human.” Sam walked over and handed the note to him. Cas opened it, and immediately the light died down some. He took a second before nodding. “Oh, yes, I should be able to read this.”

_Castiel,_

_This letter is to inform you of several things:_

_Firstly, Hannah did hear your prayers, and that she had sent myself and another to aid you in your time of need._

_Secondly, we regret that we are not able to heal you and your companions at this time. At the very least, we were able to take you to a safe place._

_Thirdly, the reason we are not able to heal you is because Heaven’s communal Grace is limited for the time being. Hannah and others have been trying to dismantle Metatron’s spell, and in doing so, has caused what the humans would call a “blown fuse” in parts of Heaven. We are trying to conserve as much Grace as we can, but already some of our brothers and sisters have fallen, again, much to our despair._

_Praise be to Father, though, we have found someone who has been a glorious aid in attempting to repair the damage. A friend of the Winchesters, or so he claims. He seems to have learned our language and is helping us decipher what little we can find regarding the spell. I do not know his name, but his Heaven is a place called “The Roadhouse” and he has a very interesting physical appearance. When I asked about his hair, his only response was “Business up front, party in the back, angel.” Why he insisted on calling me by what I am instead of by my name, I have no idea, but he fascinates, and frustrates, me to no end. Is this how you felt when you raised Dean Winchester from Perdition? Or are all humans like this?_

_Peace be with you, Castiel, and I hope to see you standing amid the Host again someday soon._

_Ariel_

Cas stopped reading, blushing slightly as he closed the note. The light inside died off.

Dean and Sam had busted up laughing. The elder Winchester was literally rolling on the floor while the younger clung to the mantle.

“What’s so funny?” asked Greg.

Dean couldn’t speak, so he just shook his head. Sam on the other hand, managed to squeeze out one word, “Ash.”

“Oh.” The others looked at the doctor. He just shrugged. “In the books, there’s a character who lived at Harvelle’s Roadhouse named Ash. He was a very educated, yet unsophisticated, young man that aided in hunts.” He looked up at Sam. “Didn’t he build a computer, in Heaven, that was able to read ‘Angel Radio’?”

Dean nodded, finally catching his breath. “Yeah. Saved our bacon, and got us to Joshua.”

“Oh, so that’s how you guys got away from Zachariah,” put in Cas.

“Yeah,” said Sam. He was still smiling. “Sounds like Ariel has a crush on him, eh, Cas?” He winked at the former angel.

Cas nodded. “Yes, I would say so. What about you, Dean? You always did fascinate, and frustrate, me so.” He ran his fingers gently through the hunter’s hair. “You still do, to some degree.”

“Shut up,” grunted Dean through a smile. He managed to stop his laughter, and gave a deep yawn as his angel petted him. Cas only smiled, and gave a yawn in return, his face scrunching slightly in pain.

Mycroft smiled over at the couple. “Perhaps we should retire for the night? After a day like today, I daresay we could all use some rest.” He turned towards the couch. “John, can Gregory and Castiel be moved upstairs?”

The doctor shrugged. “I don’t see why not, but that’s up to them. How do you guys feel? Think you’ll be able to climb the stairs?”

Cas nodded. “I’ll be fine. Might need a little help getting up and down, though.” He sat forward in the chair, but the wounds along his body pained him. “Sam?” He waved towards the whisky bottle on the mantle.

“Oh, yeah, here.” He handed the bottle to the former angel, who took a good swig.

He winced and fought off the alcohol, but the warmth in his belly dulled the pain. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Sam took the bottle back and offered it to the cop. “Greg?”

Lestrade nodded. After taking a good drink himself, he handed the bottle back. “Thanks. That should last me until we get to bed. I’ve got aspirin in the medicine cabinet, Myc.”

“Of course.” Mycroft eased the recliner into the upright position, and, taking the man’s good hand, helped his husband to his feet.

Dean lifted Cas as he had before, then slowly eased the man onto his feet, keeping an arm around his shoulders. Cas gave Dean a kiss on the cheek and slipped an arm around the hunter’s back.

They all headed upstairs, Cas and Dean, and Mycroft and Greg, going slowly, so as not to aggravate the men’s wounds. Despite his want, Sherlock was almost falling asleep on John’s shoulder. Apparently worrying over loved ones was more exhausting than he’d anticipated. Sam followed behind in case the others needed help.

Mycroft stopped in front of the door to his and Lestrade’s bedroom and pointed down the hall to other available rooms for the other five men.

“Good-night, everyone,” nodded John, pulling Sherlock to the one at the end of the hall. He was answered with a chorus of “Night”’s before the doors all shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe, Ash *giggles*


	14. Sherlock is an Asshat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all in the title.

Rubbing his eyes and yawning, Dean stumbled his way into the kitchen, only to find Mycroft already bustling about in his pajamas and dressing gown. “Morning,” said the diplomat cheerily.

Dean grunted and sat down at the island.

“Coffee, or tea?”

“Coffee, please,” came the hunter’s voice.

Mycroft turned around and gave Dean a full mug. “I’m surprised to see you up this early.”

“Ah, I only need about four hours before I’m able to function.” He added his sugar and took a grateful drink. It was good coffee. “Kind of part of the job. What about you? After what you said about Sherlock’s habits, I expected you to be the ‘full-eight-hours’ type.”

Mycroft turned and leaned against the counter, a steaming cup of tea in is hands. “Normally, yes, I am. But our mission is not yet finished, and I’ve been thinking all night, not to mention worrying over Gregory, probably unnecessarily. As far as I can tell, he’s slept well.”

Dean nodded. “Cas, too. I think they’ll be okay. They’re strong, and it always helps to have a doctor on hand.” He smiled.

Mycroft smiled back. “Yes, having John around is a fortunate advantage for all of us, even if he does not have all the supplies he would normally use.”

“Well, you said he was a soldier. Most likely he’s had to patch up a lot worse with a lot less. I know me and Sammy have.”

“Undoubtedly.” The two men watched quietly out the window. Since it was winter, the sun wasn’t up yet, so they just watched the stars. “So it’s a real place then, Heaven.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah.”

“Hell, too?”

The hunter’s face darkened. “Yeah.” His left thumb grazed gently over the Mark of Cain on his right arm. “And Purgatory.”

“I see.” Mycroft sipped his tea thoughtfully. “Anything we can do about where we end up?”

Dean shrugged, turning to the older man. “Try to live your life as best you can, I guess. The best Sammy, Cas, and I can hope for though is to take down as many sons o’ bitches as we can and try to leave the world a better place.” He took a drink of his coffee. “’Go down swingin’.’ That’s what I live by.”

“So is it guaranteed that the three of you are damned to Hell?” Mycroft gave the other man a sympathetic look.

The hunter sighed. “Right now, yeah, it looks that way. I mean, I’ve already been a demon, and done some damage down there. Sammy, I don’t know. I try so hard to keep Sammy right, but he’s slowly turning into me, and I don’t want that for him. As for Cas, well, Cas fell. He fell for loyalty, for love, for me… I just, I wouldn’t want him to go back down there. Not after what he had to do to get me out the first time.” He finished off the cup in one draught and got up to pour another. “I don’t think angels can be redeemed after they fall.”

“Lucifer certainly wasn’t,” commented the older man.

“Be glad you’ve never met him, Mycroft. What he did to Sammy…” The green eyes stared into his mug, glazing over. “I’ve never seen my brother more messed up. I’ve had my heart broken multiple times, but seeing him like that was one of the worst. And then Cas took the madness on himself, for me. I should have never let him do that.”

The older man laid a hand on the younger’s shoulder. “I’m sure you three did what you had to in order to reach your goals.”

Dean sniffed. “Yeah.” He wouldn’t let himself cry in front of the other man, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to. He was still getting used to having emotions again, after the six weeks of being a demon. It was going to take a while to get back to where he could comfortably separate himself in order to sort things out.

*

Dean and Mycroft stayed in the kitchen talking for a couple of hours. By the time the sun was starting to push its pink light over the horizon, they had worked together to make breakfast for everyone else.

The diplomat went in to wake his husband. The hunter went in to do the same with Cas. As they exited their rooms, Sam emerged in his pajama pants, rubbing a towel in his hair. “Oh, morning guys.”

“Hey, Sammy. We made food. Why don’t you get those other two asshats up so we can get the day started, huh?”

Sam nodded and smiled. “Sure.” He knocked on the door across from his. “John, Sherlock. You guys better get up. Breakfast is ready.”

He heard a deep mumbling that could only be Sherlock because it was returned with a slurred, “I don’t care if you’re not hungry, you’re getting up,” from John. The hunter just laughed and shook his head, following the other two couples down into the kitchen.

The seven of them sat around the dining room table. Cas and Greg looked to be feeling much better after a good night’s sleep, but they still had Dean and Mycroft hanging over them, just in case. John might as well have been pouring tea down Sherlock’s throat as the detective sat in his chair, still half-asleep. Sam just watched all of them, chuckling softly to himself as he munched on his toast and eggs.

“Is something amusing, Sam?” asked Sherlock, peeking one eye open to look at the other man.

He shook his head. “No, it’s just that the six of you are adorable.”

“Shut up,” snapped Sherlock, Dean, and Mycroft together.

Greg gave a small smile, as did Cas. John just choked on his tea as he kept it from squirting out his nose. Sam laughed. “Like I said, adorable.”

John managed to get his tea down. “What about you, Sam?”

Greg picked up on what the doctor was saying. “Yeah. Anyone special in your life?”

Sam looked down at his plate, frowning and clearing his throat.

Castiel did the same. Dean just shook his head at Greg and put a hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder, who took it.

“Oh, okay.” The cop returned to his food.

“What?” piped up Sherlock. The conversation had gotten interesting, so he’d woken up fully.

“Sherlock,” John warned.

The detective raised an eyebrow at his boyfriend. “What? It’s not like they’ve all died.” He looked to Sam.

The bigger man’s face darkened. He picked up his plate and cup, and headed for the kitchen.

Mycroft sighed, exasperated. “Honestly, William. Will you ever learn to have some tact?”

Sherlock glared daggers at his brother for the use of his first name, but he also knew that Mycroft knew it was the only way to truly shut him up. He held the look until John whapped him in the back of the head.

“Go apologize.”

“For what?” Sherlock rubbed his head. “It’s hardly my fault the man is clearly cursed.”

“For being an insensitive prat.” The blue-gray eyes held the blue-green ones firmly.

He almost looked offended. “John…”

“Do it,” the doctor commanded.

The detective gave a huff. “Fine.” He got up, ruffling his dark curls back into place. “And here I was thinking that I wore the trousers in our relationship,” he commented quietly.

John heard him all the same. “Well, you thought wrong.”

“Clearly.” He left.

*

“Sorry.”

Sam didn’t turn around.

“I mean it.” Sherlock stepped in from the doorway and sat at the island next to the younger man.

He sighed. “I know.”

Sherlock’s eyes danced over the man’s face and posture. “They really did die, all of them.” It wasn’t a question.

Sam nodded. “Yeah. All, except one, as far as I know. Why are you interested?” He finally looked at the other man. “You don’t seem the type to care what goes on in other’s personal lives.”

“True.” The shorter man nodded. “Usually, I don’t, unless it pertains to a case, but I do make exceptions for people I consider friends.”

Sam smiled. “So people you’re not an annoying dick to all the time.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, you can thank John for that.” He gave a small laugh.

Sam chuckled. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

*

The others came in a few minutes later, carrying the dishes.

Mycroft’s phone went off in his pocket. He pulled it out. “Ah. Exellent,” he said, after reading the text.

“What’s up?” Dean was organizing the dishes in preparation to be washed.

“It seems the signal from Gregory’s ring has been found. And Deirdre has accepted my offer for dinner.”

The elder Winchester stared at the elder Holmes, confused at the man’s non-sequitor.

As they did the dishes, Mycroft explained his plan to them.

“Awesome,” commented Dean when the diplomat finished speaking.

“Brilliant,” beamed Greg, who gave his husband a quick hug and a kiss. “As always.”

“Oh, this going to be interesting.” Sherlock smiled his most devious smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, poor Sammy.


	15. Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's plan is put into action.

It took a few hours to get everything in order. And convince Dean to get on the helicopter. The thing that finally steeled his will was the thought of dealing Tavish the same blows the man had dealt to Cas.

The two sets of brothers, Anthea, and Moira flew to Gills. Then Mycroft called Deirdre. “Are we in position?” Pause. “Excellent.” He hung up and turned to the group. “Alright, everyone aboard.”

The six of them climbed on to a small sailboat Mycroft had rented. “Anthea, if you wouldn’t mind taking the helm.”

“Of course, sir.” She stuffed her phone inside a pocket to her coat. Taking the wheel, she pulled them out of port and into the open sea.

Once they were away from prying ears and eyes, Mycroft turned to Sam. “Mr. Winchester, would you be so kind as to tie up Miss MacConner?”

“Do what!” shouted the woman.

“Apologies, but, trust me, it’s for the best.”

“No problem,” shrugged Sam, picking up a spare rope off the railing.

Moira tried to run away, but Dean quickly caught her, his strong hands wrapping around her upper arms. She tried shouting something before Sherlock tied a gag around her head. Then Dean flipped her around and Sam tied her.

The men didn’t like doing this to her, but they were posing as Mycroft’s lackeys. At least for the time being. “Sorry,” whispered Dean in her ear as he carried her down into the tiny cabin. All he received in return was a deathglare as he locked her in there.

“You think she’ll be okay?” asked Sam, concerned.

Sherlock waved a hand flippantly. “She’ll be fine.”

*

It wasn’t long until they approached the island of Muckle Skerry. The island wasn’t too far off the route to Saint Ronaldsey, so it was a reasonable place for a hideout for a band of rogue seafarers.

Anthea sailed the boat up to where John and the others had been tipped. A small dinghy met them on the way.

“Oi! ‘Oo goes there?” A voice rolled over the cold waves.

Mycroft stepped up to the bow. “Someone wishing to speak your leader, a Mr. Tavish Lochmoor!”

“Wot you want with ‘im?” shouted the voice in return.

“A simple business transaction. I believe I have something of his.” His leather-gloved hand slipped into the burlap sack Sherlock was holding behind him. He held Moira’s seal skin aloft and stretched out, so as to be instantly recognizable. He watched as the men on the dinghy radioed in a message, then got one in return.

“Alright, ya can come, but the cove ain’t big enough for yer ship.”

“No problem!” Mycroft turned to the men behind him. “Dean, fetch Moira, would you? Sam, Sherlock, prepare the boat.”

The men did as they were told. Soon the five of them were on their way into the cave Moira had escaped before.

The woman was scared now. She genuinely believed that she had been rescued by John and the others, only to find herself really just as a trading pawn for Mycroft. She tried fighting as Sam hauled her ashore, but the large man was too much.

They were on the right. Sherlock was on Mycroft’s other side, the woman’s seal skin in his pack, while a rifle rested in his arms. Dean brought up the rear, a scowl on his face horrible enough to quell any sensible man, no matter how brave they were. None of the finfolk dared look him in the eye.

“Now, which one of you is Mr. Lochmoor?” asked Mycroft calmly.

“That’d be me.” The burly redhead stepped forward. His eyes slipped from Mycroft’s diplomatic mask to Moira’s terrified face and back, smirking. “I see yeh’ve come t’ return t’ me wot’s mine.”

“That I have; and, as I understand it, you have something of mine.”

“Oh? And wot might that be?”

Mycroft smiled cockily. He held up a hand and waved two fingers at Sam.

Instead of the larger Winchester pushing Moira forward to her doom, he wrapped a large arm around her and pinned her to the ground while MI6 troops under Mrs. McConner’s command emerged from the water and the shadows.

Within 30 seconds, Tavish and his followers were on their knees, surrounded, hands behind their heads, each with a silver bullet poised to blow them away.

“There now,” smiled Mycroft. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Sam let Moira up, but still held on to her.

“Wot’s the meanin’ o’ this!” shouted the bear of a man from the ground.

“Oh, come now, Tavish,” purred a woman’s voice. “Surely ya din’t think yeh’d get away with kidnapping my daughter, now did ya?” Deirdre MacConner stepped out of the water behind Dean, startling him (though he didn’t show it), and draping her seal skin over her arm. She walked up to stand beside Mycroft.

The red-haired man in front of them growled.

The middle-aged woman waved her hand commandingly. “Take them away.”

Her agents made to move the fugitives, but Mycroft cleared his throat. “Would you mind waiting a moment, please?”

Deirdre held up her hand, stopping them. “Somethin’ ya wish t’ say, Mr. ‘Olmes?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Something I wanted to do.” He turned around to Dean. “Mr. Winchester, would you like to go first?” He gestured towards Tavish.

“Gladly,” growled the younger man. He approached the kneeling man. Fiery green eyes met icy ones. “This is for what you did to Cas, you son of a bitch.” With that, he flipped his gun around with one hand and, holding the barrel, swung it like a baseball bat. The butt connected with the Scot’s head and there was an audible _Crack!_

Tavish fell to the ground, groaning. Dean didn’t care if he was conscious or not. He didn’t bother checking before he nailed the man in the gut with his steel-toed boots, knocking the wind out of him. He was about to deal another blow, the Mark of Cain starting to take over, when Mycroft cleared his throat loudly. The American turned around to the diplomat shaking his head at him, and the pleading puppy-dog eyes of his brother. Reluctantly, he walked back to his original position.

“Which one of you is Frang?” called Mycroft.

A tall blond looked up at the suited man. “I am,” he answered tentatively.

“I see.” Mycroft stepped up to the kneeling man. “I believe you are the one who has what I seek.”

Frang looked up, scared. If the lackey was that bad, how much worse would the leader be? He closed his eyes, wincing, as Mycroft bent down, reaching for him.

The diplomat rifled around in the man’s pockets until his hand felt smooth metal. “Ah.” He pulled out Lestrade’s silver necklace, still containing his wedding band. “Thank you, now,” Mycroft pulled a pistol out of a hidden holster and shot the man’s left upper arm with a silver bullet, severing the bone.

The man screamed, gritting his teeth but all he got in response was, “Turnabout’s fair play,” and a scowl.

Mycroft holstered his pistol and turned, walking back to Deirdre, who waved to her agents.

Once the room was clear of all the foes, the diplomat turned to the Alpha, visibly more relaxed. “Well, that was exciting.” He smiled.

“Indeed.” The woman eyed him curiously. “An’ just ‘ow long do ya intend t’ keep my daughter prisoner, Mr. ‘Olmes?”

“Hmm? Oh, sorry.” He turned. “You can let Miss MacConner go now, Mr. Winchester.”

Sam smiled down at Moira. “I’m very sorry." He removed the gag and untied here. "Orders were orders. Please forgive me."

She glared up at him, wanting to stay mad, but she could tell his smile was sincere. She nodded curtly and stalked towards her mother.

“I believe this is your’s as well.” Mycroft waved to Sherlock, who took the skin out of his pack and presented it courteously to her.

“I apologize for the cut and the burn, Miss MacConner,” he said, adopting the posh air that his brother wore on a regular basis, but smiling warmly. “All in the name of science, you understand.”

She tried to remain angry at him, but couldn’t. She sighed, taking her skin. “All things considered, it could have been a lot worse. Thank you.”

He nodded and she walked to her mother, giving her a hug. “Thank you, all of you,” said Deirdre. “We owe you so much.”

“Not at all.” Mycroft smiled cheerily. “We were glad to be of help.”

The Alpha nodded courteously and took her daughter’s hand. “Come on, dear. It’s time we went home.”

“Of course, Mother.”

“Ah, one more thing, if you don’t mind,” put in Sherlock.

“Yes?” They turned to him.

“The bodies that turned up, the ones mummified in seaweed and shells that got us into this; why was that done?” The man had severely swallowed his pride at asking this in front of everyone. Mycroft was secretly proud of his little brother.

Deirdre turned to her daughter. “Tavish gave them proper burial rights?”

Moira shrugged. “Not Tavish. I convinced Aggie t’ do it. Even though she went along with Tavish’s plan t’ expand the ranks, she agreed that abduction and forced breeding wa’n’t exactly the best way to live out the rest o’ one’s life. We thanked them for their DNA by burying them properly. Then Aggie an’ I took them t’ shore, trying t’ get me out o’ ‘ere.”

“Hmm, I shall see t’ this Aggie. Per’aps we can come t’ some sort o’ arrangement considering ‘er sentence.”

Sherlock was stunned. Mycroft and Sam just laughed. “So it was pure coincidence?” stammered the consulting detective.

“Absolutely not,” they snapped together.

“It was the highest of honors,” started Deirdre.

“Used to gain the attention of someone outside the gang,” finished Moira. “Thank you for finding them, and my skin.”

The two women slipped on their skins and dove into the water. They instantly became lost among the seething crowd of other seals.

“Well, everyone,” sighed Mycroft happily. “Shall we return home as well? Our work here is finished.”

They all nodded and headed back to the boat. Sherlock was still surprised that a detail that seemed so significant really had no effect on the outcome of the case at all. They could have just been random floating bodies and the result would have been the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the whole burial rights thing is sort of a copout, but I think it's funny giving Sherlock a detail that he worries and worries over just be something insignificant. Perhaps Sam hasn't lost those psychic powers as much as he thinks. ;)


	16. Happy Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas can be stressful. Dean's such a softie.

The next day was Christmas. The last two days of rest had really done a number on Cas’ and Greg’s healing processes, though it would still be some time before Lestrade’s arm was back to normal.

While the other men were away, Greg convinced the other two to help him decorate the living room. They had a pretty good time, until Castiel started rebutting and explaining tradition after tradition. He never understood why humans celebrated the birth of a man who was born in the spring on a holiday placed in the winter so as to align with a Pagan holiday. It really was all a ploy for the conquering nations to further “welcome” the peoples they took over into their own culture and forcing them to convert. Despite the depressing thoughts, the other two men tried to make merry. Finally, they all agreed just to do it for the sake of fun and good times with the people they cared about. That, at least, was a tradition that Cas could go along with, even if everything else was a sham.

The rest of their party came back to a fully-dressed Christmas tree, yards of fairy lights, spiked eggnog, and plenty of food.

As soon as the Holmes and Winchester brothers got back from Muckle Skerry, though, Mycroft had a car take himself, John, and Greg to Bart’s so John could get some proper supplies. Since the arm had already started healing, the doctor was forced to rebreak it before setting it properly and casting it. The politician wasn’t too thrilled with the idea, but the cop agreed it was for the best.

“I’ll be right as rain in no time, love,” assured Greg as John carefully latched a sling around his shoulders.

“But no sex,” put in the doctor, clipping a strap into place.

Mycroft looked confused. “I’m sorry?”

“Oi!” remarked Lestrade, upset.

John clicked the last strap into place and ran his hands along the whole harness, making sure it fit as it was supposed to. “You heard me. With this thing on, neither of you are going to be able to get proper leverage, or grip. It’s in too precarious a position. At most, you might be able to get away with handjobs; possibly oral, given that Greg’s on the receiving end.”

Mycroft smirked. “Well, it’s a good you’re right-handed, then, isn’t it, Gregory?”

“Aye.” The DI nodded. “And it’s a good thing you know how to use that silver tongue for more than just negotiating.” He winked.

John just rolled his eyes as he finished filling his duffle with fresh bandages and such to take back to Mycroft’s.

*

That evening was filled with guests. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Detective Inspector Dimmock, John’s sister Harry, and Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were all invited to the party at the lavish townhouse. It was all a surprise to Mycroft, as Greg had arranged it weeks beforehand via Anthea, who was also present.

John and Sherlock told their family members about their relationship, much to the detective’s reluctance. The only reason he went along with it is because John threatened to do it without him, and he was far too afraid of his mother to allow him to do that.

Harry was ecstatic. She hadn’t realized that John had been into men. When she found out, she whooped for joy, and started a round of celebratory drinks. It soon turned into a few too many, so John had asked Mycroft for a car to take her home instead of making her hail a cab.

“Hey,” she punched Sherlock’s arm. “You look after my brother, and don’t poison him, or you’ll have me to deal with. I’ve heard enough about your experiments that I shouldn’t need to tell you twice.”

He rubbed the bruise he knew he was going to have the next day. “Yes, yes, no cyanide in his tea, I got it.” He scowled down at the short woman.

“Good, cuz you’re a bit on the scrawny side,” her words started to slur. “Johnny could take ya in one go, even if he is on the short side.” She ruffled her brother’s hair.

John sighed and fixed his short locks. “I think it’s time you went home, Harry,” he said and grabbed her coat.

She nodded and walked out the door, attempting to give the stink eye to the detective, but failing miserably. The doctor just put his face in his palm. “Happy Christmas,” yelled the woman before she nearly fell out the door.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were just as delighted when the younger man introduced the doctor.

“Mummy, please, it’s no big deal,” grunted Sherlock airlessly as his mother gave him a hug that popped his back.

“Nonsense, Lockie. John is obviously a strong, honorable, sensible man. I’m glad you finally found someone to keep you right after all these years.” She let him go and patted his cheek.

“You take good care of my boy, now, Doctor.” Mr. Holmes was cheery, but John knew the classic threat.

He nodded. “I will, don’t worry.” He wrapped an arm around Sherlock and stood on his tip-toes to give him a kiss on the cheek. Sherlock looked kind of sick, but he put up with it, thanks to a sharp look from his mother.

The older couple walked away to say good-bye to Mycroft. Sherlock winced as his mother gave a high-pitched squeal and nearly tackled her eldest son; quite the feat at her age. “I think he told them.”

John just nodded and slipped his arm to down around Sherlock’s waist. They watched as Greg strode up and took his husband’s hand. Then the younger couple laughed as both the politician and cop were reprimanded for not inviting Mr. and Mrs. Holmes to the wedding. They looked like small children under the stern glares of the parents.

Mycroft did his best to calm his mother down. She and his father, of course, knew about his position. He never would have heard the end of it if he hadn’t told them, but he explained why he hadn’t told them about Lestrade, and made them swear not to share the information with anyone. He nodded to them, promising to visit, and when they had the chance, redo their wedding vows for both of their parents, as Greg’s didn’t know either.

Mr. Holmes held a steady look with his son, which conveyed everything from _Why didn’t you tell us_ to _A cop, Good choice_ to _You know I’m never going to hear the end of this now._ Clearly, even though he was obviously old-fashioned, he did not mind in the least that both of his children were in homosexual relationships, because he knew that they were happy.

They left, Mrs. Holmes twittering excitedly. Molly and Mrs. Hudson did the same after Mycroft and Greg told them too, and, of course, on pain of execution, made them swear not to tell a soul. It was all a very trying night for the couple, and they soon just wished to retire.

*

Mycroft was very stressed out. He sat in the recliner in front of the fire, a glass of a light, white wine in his hand. Everyone had left. It was now just him, Greg, Sherlock and John, the Winchester brothers, and Cas.

“Ah, Myc, it wasn’t that bad, was it?” Lestrade patted his husband’s hand.

“Are you kidding? Gregory, my mother…”

The other man cut him off, sitting in his lap, “Knows to keep your secrets, as do Molly and Mrs. Hudson.” He gave a kiss to the man’s forehead. “If you trusted your own brother, and our American friends, whom we haven’t even known for a month, with this information, then you can trust our closest friends and family.”

The diplomat sighed. He knew the man was right, but it still weighed heavily on his mind.

*

John decided to lighten the mood some by asking the Holmes brothers to play some music for them. They agreed to do so, and as soon as he recognized the tunes, Cas began to sing. _A capella,_ his gravelly voice wasn’t usually one to be tolerated, but there was something about him joining the violin and piano. Maybe it was the accompaniment, maybe it was just the fact of the ‘magic of Christmas’, maybe it was leftover mojo he didn’t know he possessed, but as verse after verse went by, the room lightened and even Dean began to smile.

After music, they exchanged gifts. Mycroft ended up giving everyone the prototype Kevlar jackets, except for Greg, but he’d gotten him a proper winter coat that had been modified to include the new bullet-proof plates. The cop happily put it on, buttoned it, and kissed his husband.

“Gregory, please, take it off. You’ll overheat.”

“Nonsense,” he countered, and snuggled himself down into it again. “I’m perfectly comfortable.”

The red-haired man raised his eyebrows. “Just look at your face, you’re overheating already.”

“Don’t care,” smiled Lestrade cheekily.

The interaction between the two men made John and Cas chuckle, earning a sympathetic smile and head shake from Dean and a confused look from Sherlock. Sam took the momentary distraction to pull out the last present.

It was a small, simple thing, badly wrapped in newspaper. The automobile ad section. On the top was a picture of a black Impala.

Getting up, he handed it to his brother. “Here.”

The elder Winchester smiled and hugged his brother. Then he handed Cas his glass of eggnog. The reminder of Baby made his smile wider, and he flipped it over, peeling the edge.

Manly man Dean Winchester nearly burst into tears when the paper fell away to reveal the same small, bronze amulet on the leather cord that he’d gotten all those Christmases ago. “Sammy,” he choked.

Sam hugged him again. “Don’t mention it.”

“But I thought…” he gripped the small item.

“That it had been lost? When you threw it away?” Dean nodded. Sam continued. “No, I grabbed it before following you out to the car. I’ve kept it, until I thought it was time to give it back, when you needed it.”

Dean nodded again and put the amulet on. Then he smiled up at the others. The British men may not have understood why the particular article was important, but they understood that it was. Cas took Dean’s right hand, squeezing tight, his blue eyes glowing like they still had a bit of grace in them.

There was a quiet, happy silence. The feeling of love and contentment, the feeling that the humans had explained to Cas that Christmas was about, actually came over them.

The moment didn’t last long though, as there was a low swishing sound and another small box appeared on the arm of the sofa. Sam turned around and opened the card. There was one word, written in Enochian again, but this time it was in ink.

“Here, Cas,” said the younger Winchester, handing the box to the former angel. “Must be for you.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed and his eyes squinted as he took the parcel and opened it. Laying inside, in a diamond phial, was a bit of swirling light. A bit of Angel grace. The former angel was speechless.

“Is that…” asked Dean.

Cas just nodded as he opened the letter found folded under the item. It took him a moment before he was able to read it out loud.

_Castiel,_

_Praise be to Father and all the Archangels! Hannah has discovered the seal on the Gate and with the aid of Ash, the human soul I mentioned before, we have begun dismantling the spell of that traitor Metatron._

_If I was to put it in terms that humans could understand, I would say that it appears as a cross between a spider’s web and a bird’s nest, where each thread and twig and branch was made of Grace. The grace contained in a nephilim’s heart, a cupid’s bow, and the essence of an angel in love with a human. That is a very rough analogy, though, and only could truly be comprehended by actually witnessing the blasphemy that is this seal._

_Here is what we’ve been able to extract of your Grace so far. It is not all of it, for much has disintegrated in the hands of our brothers and sisters, but what was left intact, we have placed in this to give to you, our honorable brother, until such time as you can rejoin us. We will send you more when, and if, we can, by orders of Hanael. Until then, take care of yourself, and the Winchesters._

Castiel frowned down at the phial in his hand and sighed.

“What is it, Cas?” asked John quietly, as his arm lay casually around Sherlock’s hips. Well, it was supposed to look casual, but he was really holding the consulting detective back from taking the item and performing experiments on it.

“He doesn’t need it, do you Castiel?” asked Mycroft.

Cas shook his head and looked up at Dean. He wrapped his arms around him, kissed him on the cheek, and whispered, “Hang on to this for me, would you?”

When he let the man go, the phial lay next to the amulet on the leather cord.

The elder Winchester was shocked but he buttoned his lip and nodded. Cas smiled, and instantly the room brightened. They didn’t notice though. The hunter and the former angel had resumed their recurring soul-searching staring contest.

Instead of Sam clearing his throat to snap them out of their reverie, though, this time it was the cop. “Oi, you two lovebirds gonna kiss, or are you gonna stare at each other all night?”

“Shut up,” laughed Sherlock while Mycroft playfully jostled the man. “Seriously, though, do check the back of the letter.”

“What?” Cas looked away from Dean and flipped the letter around. “Oh.”

_P.S. Hey, Cassie. What’s shakin’? Tell Dean-o and Samsquatch “Hi” for me. Your awesome older brother, Gabriel._

The former angel busted up laughing. It was lighter and hardier than any he had given in a long time. “You son of a bitch,” he said, looking towards the ceiling.

“You don’t actually mean Gabriel, the Archangel, do you?” As always, John was Dr. Obvious.

“Of course he does, look at his face.” Sherlock kissed John’s temple lightly. Lestrade was laughing and Mycroft just gave a small smile.

Dean and Sam on the other hand, were shocked.

“Now wait a damn minute,” growled Dean, all business again. “Gabriel’s dead. We watched him die.”

The others looked at him, confused. “Well,” he shrugged, “not directly, but you can’t really look at an angel when it dies. The light’ll blind ya.”

“Ah,” nodded Sherlock.

Cas shook his head. “No, Gabriel’s alive. I met him, before you took out Abbadon.”

“And you didn’t tell us!”

The former angel shrugged. “I didn’t know for sure. I got the impression Metatron was controlling him, or at least brought him back from the dead. He had me in an illusion the whole time, when I was really just sitting tied up in Metatron’s office.”

“So that’s how you got the damn ‘pop culture’ blast.” Dean pressed his hand to his forehead. Cas just nodded.

Sam still hadn’t spoken. But his face had changed. His eyes scrunched shut. First he portrayed disbelief, then anger (accompanied with a growl and a snarl), then a bit of sadness, then exhaustion, then, finally, he blushed, his face turning as red as the baubles on the tree behind him. “GABRIEL!!!” he bellowed.

Suddenly there was a whoosh of wings and Sam stood there, glaring darkly down at a man about as tall as John. The 6-foot-4 Winchester ground his jaw, his eyes, and mind, saying everything he couldn’t say out loud. Then he let his fist say it, and he punched the Archangel across the face.

Of course, the great celestial being took it in stride, the blow barely noticeable to him. “Nice to see you, too, Gigantor,” he chuckled.

“Shut up,” snapped Sam. His fists buried themselves in the 5-foot-8 angel’s shirt, lifted him, and the human smashed their mouths together. Letting go, he growled, “Don’t you ever do that again!” The moose of a man shook the angel lightly.

Dean and Cas laughed softly, recalling the time Dean had growled those same exact words to Cas, for the same exact reason.

Sherlock just busted up laughing while John glared at him. “What’s so funny?”

He clapped a hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder. “He reminds me of you when I came back.”

John responded by punching Sherlock in the same place Harry had. The taller man sobered up quick enough.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, Gregory.” Mycroft was too distracted with trying to wrestle the coat off of a clearly overheating Lestrade, who, in turn, was teasing the politician, trying to distract him by kissing him. Then he ran off upstairs, laughing. The ginger chased after him.

Sam was still scowling down at Gabriel. “Upstairs. Now.”

A cocky twinkle appeared in the Archangel’s whiskey colored eyes. “Whatever you say.” He twirled a finger into the Winchester’s plaid overshirt, smiled, and they disappeared with a quick _flip-flap_ sound.

“Apparently it’s time for bed,” commented Cas with a small smile. Dean responded with a long stretch and deep yawn. His arm came down around the former angel’s shoulders. Then they marched away, waving to John and Sherlock.

The consulting detective was still sulking from the punch he’d gotten from John. The shorter man apologized by going over to the stereo in the corner, turning on some classical, then pulling Sherlock out into the open space in front of the fire, and dancing with him. He knew how much the man enjoyed it. They stayed there for a long time, relaxing in each other’s silent company, before heading up to bed themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feels!


	17. Thank you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to go home.

As much as he didn’t like the idea, Sam had convinced Gabriel to fly them home. Dean appreciated this to no end, as did Castiel.

“Maybe you’re not so bad after all,” commented the elder Winchester. Instantaneous flight was certainly a better idea to the man that nine nerve-wracking hours on a metal contraption. Not that he completely trusted the Archangel, but he’d certainly redeemed himself in Dean’s eyes, at least a bit, when he’d stood up to Lucifer.

“Aww, Dean-o, I knew you loved me.” Gabe reached up and pinched Dean’s cheek playfully.

“Shut it.” Dean walked back to where the Holmes brothers and their significant others were standing. Shaking all their hands, he smiled. “Well, hey, if you ever get another case like this, don’t hesitate to give us a call.” He handed business cards to Sherlock and Mycroft.

The elder Holmes just nodded and smiled as he took the card. Sherlock squinted curiously before pocketing it.

Sam strode up. “And remember, if you’re ever Stateside, come on by the bunker. You guys would love it. Books everywhere, on nearly every supernatural subject available. “

“Thank you,” responded Mycroft. “We’ll be sure to do so.” He paused. “I’ve been wondering, Sam, would you possibly consider staying? Or if not, doing some work over there, for me?” His blue eyes settled firmly on the taller man’s hazel ones.

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. “What kind of work?”

“Oh, this and that. You seem a strong, intelligent, capable, young man. I’m sure we could come to some arrangement.”

“We’ll have to see. Let us get settled back home, and call me when you have a more definite description. There are lines I’ve crossed that I regret crossing, and will never do so again.”

“I see. Very well. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Where is this bunker?” asked Lestrade.

“Lebanon, Kansas,” answered Cas.

Dean nodded. “Yeah, just be sure to call us when you land and we’ll come get ya. The bunker itself is kind of a ‘dead zone’. People can call in and out without being traced and there’s a field around it that blocks the electronic signature from the satellites. Makes it hard to find.”

Sherlock’s and John’s faces lit up at this little factoid. “We might head up there sooner than you think,” smirked the consulting detective.

“Cool, we can take you on some hunts. Show you the ropes.” Sam shook everyone’s hands, then went and put his arm around Gabriel’s shoulders. “You ready?”

“As ready as ever, Samsquatch.” The short angel frowned. “This is a one-time deal, you understand that?”

“Uh-huh,” nodded Sam sarcastically. “We’ll see about that after we all explain everything.”

Sam, Dean, and Cas all clapped a hand onto Gabriel. They waved good-bye to Greg, Mycroft, Sherlock and John.

“Nice meeting you guys. Happy holidays, and thanks for your help,” put in John before the three Americans and the Archangel disappeared with a whooshing sound.

Sherlock gave a nervous huff. John looked up at him. “You want to go, don’t you?” The consulting detective gave a curt nod and the doctor started to laugh.

“What do you think, Myc? Could we extend our holiday a little longer? My arm still has to heal you know.” Greg slipped an arm around his husband.

“I don’t see why not,” smiled the politician. “Being a Man of Letters is certainly an intriguing idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you all enjoyed it. Any and all feedback is always welcome. See you guys next time around.


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